The Ledbury Run
by Maddy Carr
Summary: Grey, war damaged England doesn't provide much in the way of excitement for two schoolboys who used to be Kings.  Yet danger lurks in the most unexpected of places and Peter and Edmund must use all their skills to survive a dangerous enemy.
1. Chapter 1

**The Ledbury Run**

By Maddy Carr

Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply. I do not own Peter or Edmund Pevensie, the Malvern School, or anything else that resembles anything real. Don't bother suing, as you won't get much except a few cheque stubs and a car loan

**Summary:** A year after _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ and grey, war damaged England doesn't provide much in the way of excitement for two schoolboys who used to be Kings. Yet danger lurks in the most unexpected of places and Edmund and Peter find they must draw on all their skills to defeat a desperate enemy.

Author's Note: C. S. Lewis never specifies where Peter and Edmund go to school, so I have sent them to Malvern College, where Lewis himself attended. Every year, the older boys took part in something called the "Ledbury Run", or "Ledder" in that English Public School slangy manner, a 7.5 mile Cross-Country run from the village of Ledbury back through the Malvern Hills to the Senior college field. The school has (or had) ten houses and I have randomly put the Pevensies in School House. That's all you need to know!

CHAPTER ONE

**The Race Starts**

Edmund knelt to fasten the laces on his gym shoe more tightly just as Peter started muttering to himself. Peering up at his elder brother, a half-rueful smile on his face, Edmund wandered, not for the first time, where on earth Peter had picked up this strange habit of talking to himself before every race. Even their classmates had come to expect it and rolled their eyes good-naturedly when the muttering inevitably started.

Although, Edmund considered as he rose lightly back to his feet, not all the eye rolling was as good-natured as it appeared. After all, Peter was the one to beat when it came to athletics and he had won enough races over the past couple of years to make the other boys take any and every opportunity to beat him. Frankly, most were rather intimidated by him (and not just because of his athletic prowess) and the muttering, well, didn't really help to soften his image.

"You sound like a mad man", Edmund said kindly, far too used to his brother to imagine that telling him to shut-up would make any impact.

"Hmm?" Peter looked towards his brother, eyebrow's raised in innocent enquiry.

Edmund couldn't help his affectionate smile back - Peter really didn't know the effect he had on people and would probably have been surprised that his muttering was even noticed. Edmund decided not to call him on it today - watching the more competitive boys edge away from his brother, the muttering maniac, was far too entertaining.

"Do you fancy your chances against the Champion of the Ledder, then?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows to comic effect.

Peter mock-glowered back, but Edmund was not deceived and was well aware of the pleased twinkle behind the blue eyes,

"Prepare for defeat, Usurper," Peter declared, horribly overdoing it, as usual.

Edmund furrowed his eyebrows dramatically, partly to express rage and partly to stop his face crinkling with amusement

"Ha! I laugh in the face of your bluster!" he declared, very nearly speaking the literal truth.

Matthews, who was standing nearby, struggling to get the blue cotton jersey over his rather round head, snorted with amusement, well used to the Pevensie pre-race show. Horley, beside him, was not nearly as impressed. He had been running well this season and truly did fancy his chances against the current Ledder Champion - Edmund Pevensie.

Edmund would have been highly amused to discover that he was just as intimidating to the boys as his elder brother. The fact of the matter was, that Peter had been beaten before - only it was his younger brother who had done it every time! Edmund, who was nearly three years younger and who had not yet gained the muscle bulk, height and finesse that he would acquire in later years and would make him a more equal match for his brother, was more than used to being outclassed at this stage of his career. The fact that he occasionally snatched victory (including the previous year's coveted Ledder) was more a testament to his superior tactical skill than his physical strength. ("Sneakiness", Peter had called it last year, both proud and piqued by his unexpected second place finish).

No, until he grew a little more, he was sanguine about his chances of beating Peter and enjoyed every little victory as a bonus, but shrugged and smiled without surprise at his more frequent defeats. He would have been dismayed to discover that this gentlemanly behaviour rather awed his rather less mature contemporaries who would have given away the contents of their tuck boxes for the chance of rubbing defeat in the face of the Golden Boy. That Edmund occasionally _did_ succeed, and did no face rubbing of any kind afterwards, was also a cause of whispered debate. It made his classmates wonder what other miraculous achievements he might one day be able to pull off.

"Boys! Gather at the line! No talking now!"

Mr. Leadbeater's pipe-roughened voice drifted over the heads of the boys from School House and they obediently shuffled forward with the boys from the other Houses in Ledbury High Street. Edmund grinned at Peter in anticipation, then leaned forward subtly, preparing himself for the race. He was dimly aware of Peter doing the same, but didn't notice that a pocket of space had formed around the brothers, despite the crowd of nearly 100 boys. Horley's determination aside, nobody really doubted who would be the winner. It would be a Pevensie. Either one.

Edmund had ceased to care that he and his brother were, to put it mildly, faster, stronger and quicker than their classmates. He supposed it had something to do with the air of Narnia, or the breath of Aslan, or some such thing. Although it had been over a year for him, and nearly two for Peter, since they had breathed Narnian air, the apparent effects had not worn off. Edmund didn't suppose they would. Peter, on the other hand, was constantly amazed, as though he expected them to wake up every day as four-foot weaklings. This amazement was yet another reason why Edmund found his brother endlessly and endearingly amusing.

"Get set!"

The boys fell silent; their eyes fixed forward, their ears primed for the blast of the starting pistol. Edmund slid his gaze sideways where he knew his brother waited. Depending on that extra sense that always told the siblings where the other was, Edmund knew that Peter could not help himself but gaze back. Now, if the timing were right…

_BANG_

The pistol went off just as Peter, momentarily distracted, had looked back at Edmund. Edmund, who had been hoping for just that event grinned, winked cheekily, and then without warning, sprinted forward through the pack of boys ambling off the line. Barely breathing, Edmund streaked forward, easily outpacing everyone, hoping to gain a considerable lead before he was forced to fall back into a more manageable running speed.

As he ran, relishing the bite of the autumn air, he imagined his brother, startled and spluttering in his wake and he couldn't help the pleased grin that spread over his face. Sprinting like a competitor in the 100 yard dash was no way to start a seven and a half mile cross-country race, as he well knew, but Edmund had no illusions about the outcome of the race and he would cling to every tactical and psychological advantage he could get. Of course Peter was going to win! Edmund had surprised him the previous year and Peter never made the same mistake twice. His only hope this year, and it was a forlorn one, was to shock his elder brother into relinquishing the lead for as long as he could. Edmund was quick and he was clever, but he couldn't beat Peter for stamina and consistency. He was going to pay for his lighting start later in race, but Peter would have to work for his victory! He felt that staying in the lead until the last couple of miles would salve his _amour propre_ and he would be well satisfied with that modest goal.

Besides, he loved shocking his brother.

His aching legs and gasping breath finally forced him to slow his break-neck pace and he risked a look back over his shoulder. He had reached the edge of the village and was starting uphill on the winding track would take the runners through the Malvern Hills, back to school. When woods, fields and hedges were upon him, he would have no further opportunity to gauge his lead. He was initially pleased by the gap he had achieved, but apprehensive when he saw that a small group of boys had drawn ahead of the main bunch and were intent on chasing him down, albeit at a steadier (and much more sensible) pace. Naturally, Peter led that group.

Edmund sighed and pressed on, annoyed that his tactic had only partially worked, and enormously pleased and proud that Peter had recovered so quickly from his cheeky manoeuvre. He wondered, not for the first time, why they insisted on testing each other so frequently. Their mutual competition had been going on for nearly twenty years now and showed no signs of stopping. He supposed it had started out of a sense of practicality, as well as fun; when you rule a kingdom of talking animals, it is very difficult to compare your own physical skills and development! Hence, they inspired each other to get faster, stronger, better. He supposed they always would.

Of course, they had also frequently ridden out to battle and honing their skills was a matter of survival. Here in this sleepy part of England, where the war seemed so far away, and only the occasional drone of aircraft overhead reminded them of the terrible dangers and suffering elsewhere, there was little incentive to keep up their commitment and enthusiasm. They did, of course. The habit was too ingrained - the habit that was born of great responsibility, and once a King of Narnia, always…well.

There was no point in dwelling on what couldn't be changed. Edmund took one last glance back, then settled into a steady rhythm as he veered eastwards off the track into the woodland that stretched up to Little Malvern Court.

Running through woodland, albeit tamed and gentle as this was, took a certain skill that Edmund was more than familiar with. You had to watch your footing and look out for dangling branches; beware of the unexpected too - there had been more than one boy startled off the path by a spooked deer in the history of the Ledbury race! Edmund, alert for all the usual dangers, failed to account for a danger he'd never met in the Great Western Wood - the human one.

Afterwards, he would analyse every memory he had of that moment, trying to find out if there was something he had missed, something that would have alerted him. But he couldn't wish it had happened to somebody else - the somebody else would have probably been Peter.

Was it the rushing noise or the push that came first? Perhaps they happened simultaneously - he remembers a hard yank at his ribs, a leafy, rustling sound, a sudden intake of breath, then a gasping, nauseating tumble away and down from the path, green and orange flashing in front of his eyes.

The sudden stop was so shocking, so unexpected; he had difficulty recalling how long it all took. Maybe it was only seconds before he crashed to a halt, weight at his waist and his wrists. He hadn't realised he was pinned at first. The sense that he was very close to another person came before sight confirmed it. Had he collided with somebody? He was later to feel embarrassed that at that moment he had felt that very British thing, an apology, form on his lips.

But then…

The hand grasping his wrists tightened and his sense of self-preservation kicked in. Lying awkwardly half on his back and half on his side, he stiffened, then bucked against the pressure. Eyes flying open, he looked up into a tense young face. He had a momentary picture of a frightened, determined gaze, a flash of blond hair before his eyes, flicking over the scene, settled on an insignia. The collar of a uniform. His mind automatically translated. _Luftwaffe_.

_What?_

Shocked and panicked, he bucked so violently, he threw the hands off him for the moment and scrabbled away on hands and knees, grasping hurriedly for a branch to hoist himself upright.

_Peter_ he thought. _Peter!_

He knew his brother was approaching and his reaction was automatic. Wasting precious seconds, he clambered to his feet, grasping hands at his ankles, as he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Four short staccato blasts. And again.

He reached three when his arm and neck were grabbed in a bruising hold and shoved forwards.

"_Ruhe! ruhe!"_ he heard behind him as he was flung headlong into a tree.

His didn't remember much beyond that point.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the review so far guys, I'm really chuffed! There won't be another update until at least the weekend as I am off to Lancaster tomorrow for a three-day conference. However, I will be taking paper and pen in order to write the next chapter. Goodness, how quaint!

CHAPTER TWO

**The Pursuit**

Peter couldn't help goggling with shock when Edmund winked at him cheekily, then shot off at top speed to the front of the pack where he then proceeded to make the boys look like they were jogging backwards. Peter was far too well trained for the shock to last long, but he couldn't prevent his involuntary laugher or the massive grin that followed.

_Edmund, Edmund..._

A couple of the boys around him gave him very speaking looks at the sound of his amusement. Davenport, who ran on his left, went as far as to roll his eyes – but how was he supposed to react? He wanted to shout, "_That's my little brother!" _and laugh again at the joy of it.

Of course, he wasn't going to let Edmund get away with it. Peter was confident of winning this year and he knew Edmund knew it – hence the spectacularly hare-brained tactic he had just witnessed! Talking of winning...he suddenly sped up to break free of the main pack, stretching his legs as they made their way to the top of the High Street and across the village green. Five other boys came with him, Davenport amongst them. Edmund was already out of the village and out of sight, but hopefully they'd spot him again before he went into the woods. Peter wasn't pushing himself to his limit yet; just fast enough to start to close down the gap Edmund was quickly increasing, but not so much that he threatened his fast finish. He grinned again.

Oh, he did treasure his brother! They never stopped challenging each other, never stopped competing in everything, but they also never stopped enjoying the other's successes. They had been inseparable in Narnia, here in grey England, they depended on each other more keenly – they saw in each other that wonderful reminder of Narnia that they couldn't see in themselves.

Peter was seeing in Edmund now what he looked for and hoped to see every day – health and strength. Almost unconsciously he would search his brother's face at breakfast – did he smile? Was he pale? Were those dark rings under his eyes? Peter know it was borderline obsessive, but as far as he was concerned, it came with the territory of being a big brother and it was something he – and Edmund – would just have to live with.

He worried about Lucy and Susan too. Lucy was still so young, so innocent and carefree, so little changed from what she had been in Narnia that Peter feared for that very core of her. Her sparkle was so much dimmer in the heavy air of this place, her devotion to Aslan so absolute, yet so distant from his country, he couldn't bear the thought of that devotion being worn away by the daily grind. It was unfair that he invested so much in her of course, but he couldn't help but think that she was the guardian of all her siblings' souls. If her faith were to waver, what of the rest of them? Susan's gentleness was deep in her nature, but not so robust as Lucy's faith. He had watched with sorrow over the last year as a hard shell had crept over her. Her smiles were brighter but had lost some of Queen Susan's gentle warmth and compassion.

But his worry for Edmund was of a different nature altogether. Somehow, perhaps because they were so rarely apart, he didn't fear for his little brother's faith, or his soul – he feared for his health. He could not remember whether Edmund had been ill before Narnia – he supposed so, but it was no doubt in the order of most childhood ailments. After Beruna, however, there always seemed something _fragile_ about him, however tall and strong he grew. It was an ephemeral thing, difficult to explain; Edmund, mostly, was strong and fit, healthy and agile, but there was something of the House of Cards about his constitution, as though the White Witch's wand had destroyed something vital in the very foundations of his health.

No one felt the cold more acutely, nor would suffer heat exhaustion so readily. No one succumbed so easily or violently to every stray illness, nor took so long to recover. Stress and strain wore him down too easily for comfort, and no one was injured more frequently. It was a difficult path that he walked for when he was well, he was a match for anyone, but he could go downhill faster than anyone too.

Peter was always reminded of Donald, a friend of his from day school. Donald's father had made some money doing something or other in South America and on his return home had bought a Jaguar Drop head Coupé. Even though Peter was to become tiresomely familiar with this peerless car, he would be hard pressed to describe it, cars not really being his thing. It was, apparently, a marvellous vehicle in every way, except one – it very rarely worked. If the oil line was fine, the camshaft was not, if the four-cylinder engine was going, the brake drum had somehow failed. It spent more time being tuned than the Pevensie's old piano. However amusing this was at the time, Peter couldn't help but think that his little brother was rather like that car. When everything worked, he was unmatchable in every way, a joy in fact. The difficulty lay in achieving that point.

_But not today..._

Edmund's distant figure disappeared into the woodland ahead and Peter stepped up the pace. Davenport and another boy from School House stayed with him, but the others dropped back to the pack, realising quickly that at the new pace, finishing in the middle would be less humiliating than failing to finish at all.

Horley, who was one of those content to fall behind for the moment, shouted forward,

"What's Pevensie up to now, Davenport?"

"Hunting down the little Pevensie, of course", came the glib response, "he's not supposed to stray so far from his Master".

Davenport's tone was dry, but not sneering. Peter, used to such comments, merely rolled his eyes. It amused the boys of his own age to refer to Edmund as some kind of barely-trained pet. The gibe was not at Edmund, but at Peter's reluctance to curtail his brother's gyrations. Peter was fair minded enough to admit the justice of this!

"Shut up, Dav", said Peter, good-naturedly.

The corner of Davenport's mouth lifted in a wry smile,

"You let the little one run away, Old Chap", he said kindly, "You should be more careful – you know what happened last year! We older brothers can't afford to be humiliated _very_ often".

Peter was amused – Davenport's little brother was a scrubby brat in the Removes who would have to pull off a miracle to outshine his tall sibling.

"What makes you think Ed is going to do it again this year?" was Peter's response, quite deliberately lengthening his stride. Davenport snorted, but doggedly brought himself back up to Peter's shoulder.

"Nothing at all", he replied, mildly.

The teasing was all very mild, really. In truth, the Pevensies were really quite popular in the school, being neither _nouveau riche _nor too bourgeois and both being good at football and cricket. In other words, they were the 'right sort' and very little else mattered in English Schools. Peter couldn't care less for himself, but was pleased for Edmund who finally seemed like he was casting off the painful memories of that awful school he had attended before Narnia.

Peter shook off his momentary pang of guilt and sorrow at the memory of his brother's unhappiness and looked up to check their progress up the slope. They were nearing the turn-off to the woods and he didn't want to have to slow down on their approach if he could help it. His eyes scanned, then spotted the narrow path.

Then he heard it, clear as a bell – four short staccato whistles.

His step faltered and he staggered to a halt, barely hearing Davenport's startled exclamation behind him. His limbs felt cold with shock,

_No...Surely not..?_

It came again – once...twice...three times..._nothing_...

...then what sounded like a muffled yell, then a voice shouting what sounded like "Rue!"

"Is that...German?" Davenport asked softly beside him.

Peter heard someone whimper, low and distressed ... and that couldn't have possibly been him, could it? ... then he was off, running, sprinting, tearing up the path as though time and distance were suddenly meaningless.

Conversely, it seemed to take forever to get to the woodland path, sick to his stomach with anxiety, the prickle of a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He privately decided that if this was Edmund's idea of a joke, his little brother was going to die a very slow and humiliatingly painful death, and then who'd be sorry?

But those whistles...

He'd not heard that signal in, what was it? Four or five years? (by their accounting at any rate). It was a system they'd developed between them when forces were scattered and the battle horn wasn't readily available. One long whistle for attack, two for withdraw, that sort of thing. Four short whistles meant basically, _'Enemy engaged, hard pressed, Help!'_

He didn't care what this was England, thousands of years and untold distance from where they had last fought, he just reacted. He crashed into the woods, no attempt at stealth or care; his breath coming in hard, panicked bursts,

"Ed!" he hollered.

No response.

A flash of white, then blue, in the dappled shade ahead of him - was that Ed's striped jersey? He pushed himself harder still, eyes fixed on the vague shapes in the distance. It looked like two people, both close to the ground, but one much larger than the other. What was happening?

Peter pushed through the trees, oblivious to snapping twigs and small branches, barely noticing when a limb from a young birch whipped back at his face, leaving a bloody scrape down his cheek. He pushed it away impatiently, then stopped in shock as he found himself only twenty feet away from a young man crouched on the forest floor, dragging something long and dark away from the path.

The stranger was not unlike Peter - blond and blue-eyed. He may even have been handsome, but his face was so haunted and terrified, he appeared old and almost menacing in the uncertain light. Peter took in the features, and the uniform almost absently, for he'd realised what was being dragged.

_Oh God, Oh Aslan, please…_

That could only be Edmund, face down in the leaves, arms stretched above his head where he was being pulled.

"What…?" he began, barely able to voice the words over dry lips, then as the anger grew, the shock and fear receded and he found his voice,

"What are you doing? What the HELL are you doing to my Brother?"

The stranger must have seen the expression in Peter's eyes as he backed away hurriedly, heaving Edmund's limp form upright and holding him with one arm across the chest. He stumbled backwards at a half-run and Peter followed, looking for weakness to attack, daring not to look too closely at his brother's pale, quiet face under the shock of dark hair.

The stranger stopped his retreat and proved his nationality by saying,

"Anschlag! Anschlag dort!"

The German's voice shook, but his hand was steady enough when he brought his service revolver up from it's holster and pointed it straight at Peter's face.

Peter stared at the gun feeling strangely numb. He had fought and killed many, many times, but firearms…scared him. They were such an unknown quantity to him, and they were so lethal and indiscriminate, requiring little skill to use, that Peter could see. Staring at one pointed at your head was disconcerting, but his fear was not for himself, but for Ed. How could he leave his brother with this terrified, dangerous man? Yet, if he risked getting shot, how could he help Ed then?

Peter locked his eyes on the young German, ignoring the weapon. He was so young, not many years older than Peter himself, and so, so scared. Had he been shot down? Peter couldn't remember any recent activity, but this man could have bailed out long before his aircraft crashed, so maybe they were too far away to hear anything? Why had he taken Ed? Did he even know why?

Wondering if he was signed his death warrant - maybe both of their death warrants, Peter took another step forward, his hand outstretched, not convinced the airman was capable of pulling the trigger.

"Mein Bruder", he said haltingly, in his schoolboy German.

It was the wrong thing to say. Maybe the airman thought he meant him rather than his captive? Whatever the thought that passed through his mind, his face twisted in disgust and anger and Peter was suddenly convinced he was about to die,

The German pulled the trigger.

"NO!"

The bang was so loud in the that quiet copse that Peter flinched, instinctively twisting his head away and down, but not before he had caught a glimpse of Edmund, mouth still wide from his frantic shout, forcing his captor's hand down, and the bullet burying itself in the forest floor.

Peter sucked in a great breath, knees weak, simultaneously elated that his brother was awake and terrified that he was in some kind of nightmare he would never wake up from. He stared into Edmund's wide eyes. His little brother looked sick to his stomach, bleary from pain and quite terrified.

"Run Peter, you idiot!" he said quietly, but forcefully, and somehow, across that glade, Peter heard him. He had no more choices left to him - he turned and ran.

TBC

You probably won't need it, but here's a quick glossary:

Ruhe! (from Chapter 1) : Silence!

Anschlag dort! : Stop right there!

Mein Bruder : My Brother


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimers can be found in Chapter One

CHAPTER THREE

**Lost in the woods**

Edmund fought valiantly to prevent himself from throwing up the contents of his stomach as he was dragged through the undergrowth. His head throbbed painfully - he must have been unconscious for a few minutes. He had no idea why had had been kidnapped by a German with a gun, and he had almost witnessed his brother's murder

_Oh god oh god oh god…_

What had Peter been thinking? Why had he stepped forward like that? Straight towards a gun aimed at his heart? When Edmund caught up with him, he was going to shake his older brother until…until he promised never to risk himself like that ever again.

It was a vain hope, and Edmund knew it. Peter would never think of himself first.

With a yelp and a scramble as his legs fell out from under him and the uncomfortable pressure on his upper arm forced him onwards again, Edmund nevertheless couldn't suppress a shudder as he recalled that horrific moment.

He had been awoken from some dim, grey place by the sound of Peter's voice. Sick and dizzy, he had forced his eyes open, not really comprehending at first that he was staring at a gun only inches from his face. He'd stared at it dumbly for a moment, uncomprehending, until Peter's pale, anxious face had swum into view _behind_ the gun. The moment he realised the gun was pointing at his brother, he had acted - a quick, painful, instinctive move, forcing down his captor's arm even as the bullet left the barrel of the revolver.

_If I had been a few seconds later…_

Edmund screwed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to shut out the image. He was desperate for a respite, to try and force his brain to _think_, decide what he had to do next; but it was all he could do to keep his feet under him between the pain behind his eyes and their headlong rush. They were crashing through the woods, leaving a trail a Bulgy Bear could follow, and Aslan alone knew where they were going.

The pace couldn't last and Edmund got his respite rather more abruptly had he'd hoped. The airman tripped, fell headlong, and rolled gently down a slope. Edmund, still clutched tightly in one grasping hand, inevitably followed. He slid a couple of feet on his stomach, which did nothing for the pounding in his head, then stopped moving with his head level with his captor's, the only sound their hurried breathing.

Edmund coughed around the dryness of this throat, wincing at the sharp pain in his temple as he did so. As though shocked by the sudden stillness, his body began to shake and quiver in delayed reaction and he was forced to clench his jaw viciously to prevent his teeth chattering. Spikes of adrenaline caused him made him feel twitchy and exhausted in equal measure.

_I don't have time for this_.

His impatient thoughts wrenched away from his shaking body as if in disgust, blocked out the sight of Peter's shocked face, shied away from the remembrance that a mere ten minutes before, he had been blithely running along the path with no thoughts of danger or death. He had to _think_.

The young German also lay quite still. If he was having a delayed reaction of his own, Edmund couldn't tell. There didn't seem to be a corresponding quiver in the hand still clutching his arm, but Edmund was shaking too much to really be sure. Forcing down a shudder, he opened his eyes and glanced over to the airman, wanting to struggle to his feet, but afraid of triggering another panicked rush through the trees.

Blue eyes studied him back - fearfully, but with a hint of curiosity.

Edmund wished his German was better than it was, but study of the language was not exactly encouraged during the present war, and what little he had was recalled from day school, which was quite a bit longer ago for him than for his contemporaries,

"Warum…", he began tentatively, then stopped, already stuck for words.

"Warum…ich?" was the best he could manage. _Why me?_

The airman looked taken aback, but not panicked. He looked down at where his hand was clamped on Edmund's arm, as though he had only just noticed it, then looked up again, his eyes narrowing mistrustfully,

"Versicherung", was his response.

Edmund shook his head in frustration.

"I don't understand!" he said in English, hoping his meaning was clear.

He received a shrug in response - the airman obviously had as little English as Edmund had German.

"Versicherung?" Edmund parroted back interrogatively, trying to convey confusion in an elaborate series of grimaces. In any other circumstances, Edmund rather thought he might have been amused.

The German replied very slowly and carefully,

"Mit einem Engländer", he began, shaking Edmund's arm as he did so.

_Right, I got that bit_

"…niemand schiesst Mich"

Edmund could have cried. He thought _'niemand' _was 'no-one' and 'Mich' was 'me', but he had never heard the verb.

"Was ist…er…schiesst?"

The German stared at him, then lifted the hand still clutching his service revolver.

Edmund almost swallowed his tongue.

Oblivious, his captor waved the gun to emphasise the point.

"Bang! Bang!" he said, or at least what sounded like the German equivalent, "Tot!"

Edmund went cold. He knew that word.

_Tot - dead_.

The airman must have seen the look on Edmund's face as he averted his gaze quickly, as though ashamed.

"Gekommen! Gekommen!" he said in an agitated manner, pulling again on Edmund's rapidly bruising arm.

Edmund didn't resist, too aware of the weapon that had already been used once today. He allowed himself to be pulled along, ignoring the way his vision swam in and out of focus. At least now, he had information he could work with. He didn't know where, why or how the airman had been shot down, but at this stage, it was irrelevant. If Edmund had understood any of their abbreviated conversation, the German believed that he would be shot unless he had some kind of hostage with him.

_That doesn't make any sense!_

His thoughts protested at him that there were rules about these things! Britain would never shoot a man in uniform; he would only be at risk if he were thought to be a spy. It was pretty obvious to even the meanest observer that this man was very far from being a spy. So why was he so afraid?

Edmund knew enough about warfare from personal experience to understand that the picture you painted of your enemy to your own side was usually…simplistic. The Narnians had, he hoped, been less guilty of that than most, but it happened nonetheless. For example, he had no doubts at all that the Calormen saw the Narnians as no more than barely-civilised heathens. Propaganda could be a very powerful tool.

The airman was young, inexperienced and impressionable; scared out of his mind and probably convinced the English would treat him like an animal.

Which made him all the more dangerous.

Edmund didn't know how to use this information yet - not until he understood what his captor's intentions were. He was unlikely to gain his trust, but they might get some way towards an understanding if only they could find some way to communicate with each other.

Not able to do anything about that, he concentrated instead on leaving as wide a trail as he could through the woods - kicking up leaves, overturning mossy branches - things that Peter would spot. He knew his brother very well indeed and the fact he was forced to run away when confronted with the gun (eventually) did not worry Edmund in the slightest. It was a tactical retreat and he had no doubt at all in his mind that Peter was following them still, at a more discrete distance. He would have found some way to raise the alarm too, there was no question of it.

It was Edmund's job to keep everybody around them safe for as long as it took to find them and…well…to stay alive.

But he didn't like the way his head throbbed with every step, and his vision wavered. They had moved away from the path and deeper into the woods than he would have preferred. There was little likelihood of getting lost as the forest was only a very small, tame one, but he knew they would be harder to find and he didn't like knowing quite where they were, nor exactly where they might eventually emerge from the trees. He tried not to imagine what would happen if they stumbled out upon a group of children, or a farmer and his dog, but such a scenario was entirely possible - the airman obviously had no clue where they were or where they were going.

Edmund swallowed around his nausea, but knew he had to pull himself together mentally, determined that they weren't going to wander randomly about the woods while he got progressively dizzier. He pulled back on the arm holding him, offering a little resistance. The airman glanced back at him in suspicion, but Edmund held firm, whilst trying his best to look non-threatening.

"Wo?" he asked, completely unable to form a longer sentence, but hoping it would be enough,

"Wo!" he said again, with more emphasis. _Where?_

The German looked at Edmund for a moment, his face still frightened, then he looked around him, as though the trees could give him some clue,

"Die Englischer Armee, oder die englischer Luftwaffe", he said hesitantly, but he was at least understandable.

Edmund stared back in surprise,

_He wants to give himself up?_

Actually, it made sense - this young man had no hope of evading capture and he must have known it. Perhaps he felt he would be in less danger if he found someone else in uniform to give himself up to? It must be civilians he feared would shoot him, or endanger him in another way. It wasn't an _entirely_ illogical thought, but Edmund didn't believe for a moment that the ordinary folk of Gloucestershire would suddenly start to act like a lynch mob. He had to find some way to convince the airman this was the case - they couldn't just wander about hoping to randomly find a member of the armed forces. The entire situation was both sad and ludicrous and Edmund felt some stirring of resentment that he and Peter had been caught up in it.

In the next breath, he felt ashamed of himself. He didn't think of himself as a civilian, and he was sure Peter felt the same, despite their current appearance and it was better by far that they were both endangered than someone with less experience and fewer resources. He had never for a moment resented the honour, and great responsibility, of becoming a King, and he could not, in fairness, resent the situation how. All things were sent from Aslan and Edmund had thought himself resigned to that long ago.

He had to find some way to fight back, to give his brother the time he needed.

Taking a deep breath, Edmund nodded to show that German that he had understood his explanation, then piecing together all the German he could remember from their brief exchanges, he said slowly,

"Niemand schiesst Du. Nicht schiesst", and there was no doubt at all that he was massacring the language. He could remember nothing of conjugations or cases - and wasn't 'Du' the familiar form of 'You'? He was probably insulting the man into the bargain. He hoped he'd conveyed to the airman that he wasn't about to shot on sight, but he didn't know whether he'd be believed.

It seemed unlikely given the sceptical look he was getting back. Edmund tried again,

"Nicht schiesst", he repeated, then reached up and grasped the airman by the collar, shaking it a little, trying to get him to understand that the uniform protected him.

Too much and too fast. The young man jerked away like a startled cat, his gun arm coming up as if to fend Edmund off. Edmund gritted his teeth and held on, determined to get his message across, but the other man was too strong and his hand was ripped away from the collar, pulling it open, along with the dark shirt underneath.

Edmund admitted defeat and dropped back, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. Somewhere in the scuffle, the airman had let go of him, but Edmund had no intention of running from a startled man with a gun and with his head spinning in a quite sickening manner. The German meanwhile held his gun on Edmund as though his mild physical display had been a vicious attack. The man obvious trusted nothing about this situation and would not be easily convinced otherwise.

Edmund grimaced at the waves of nausea, trying to overcome the desire to lie down on the ground, focusing himself by staring straight ahead of him. A flash of metal caught his eye and it took him a moment to recognise he was looking straight at…a crucifix? The German's shirt collar had come open with the jacket and a small gold cross glinted palely at his throat.

A slight hope rose in Edmund. Was the man Lutheran? Catholic? If it was the latter, perhaps he understood Latin! If he could put his faith in his God, maybe they could find some common ground somewhere? English Public Schools, as a rule, didn't go in for Catholicism much, but maybe something from the bible? He ran through lessons in his head, searching for something to say that might mean something to the terrified man in front of him,

"Creditis in Deum", he blurted out eventually. _Trust in God_. Would he be understood?

The German lowered the gun, sending a startled, then a thoughtful look in Edmund's direction. Almost unconsciously, his free hand wandered up to the crucifix and touched it lightly, then his face darkened as he suspected a trick.

"Creditis in Deum", Edmund repeated, then completed the phrase, "et in me credite". It was from St. John's Gospel, 'trust in God, trust also in me'.

Maybe the airman thought he was mocking, maybe he thought it was a trick, or an attempt to curry favour, or even blasphemy. Whatever the motivation, the German did not react well. Striding forward, his face twisted in rage, even his gun forgotten, he grabbed Edmund by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

"Sprechen Sie nicht!" he cried, "Ich vertraue Ihnen nicht!"

The inevitable happened. When the shaking stopped, Edmund leaned forward, and vomited, quite neatly, between his feet. With a startled exclamation, the German leaped backwards and stood staring as Edmund retched and shook.

Edmund decided, rather belatedly, that it was possible he had a concussion.

He groaned, spent but sore, recalling past injuries and knowing that Peter was going to be very unhappy with him.

_No more talking. Just don't say another word!_

He looked up, miserably, expecting more rage to be directed at him, but saw that although the German was both alarmed and disgusted, there was a touch of reluctant compassion in his face. Edmund looked back, knowing he probably looked pale and sweaty and really not very prepossessing, but hoping to Aslan that he would get through to the stubborn man eventually.

"Was ist Ihr Name?" came the unexpected and reluctant question. Edmund's heart leapt with the sudden hope. It was the first indication that he was being seen as a human being and not a nameless captive.

"Mein Name ist…" Edmund paused and almost, _almost,_ smiled when he remembered that he had a German name, "…Edmund", he finished, giving it the full Germanic pronunciation.

The airman started in surprise, then gazed back, calmer than Edmund had ever seen him. Very slowly, still untrusting, but willing to try a little, he said,

"Mein Name ist Pieter."

_Oh Aslan._

The nausea came back full force and Edmund hung his head, then squatted as he felt dizzy in that position. A dry sob crowded into his throat and he wanted Peter to be there so badly at that moment, he would willingly have cried in front of his greatest enemy if it would have worked.

"Gekommen", _Pieter_ said, quiet and subdued, but with a tense edge to his voice. He grabbed Edmund's arm again.

Edmund followed.

TBC

Do I need a glossary, or are the meanings clear without one? I think it's all OK, but do ask if you are not sure. Towards the end, Pieter says, "Stop speaking, I don't trust you". Or words to that effect.

Next up, back to Peter as he gets help and tracks his hapless brother through the wood…


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you all for your lovely reviews - and I would be very happy if you could continue to review!

For your next instalment, Peter does his best to keep up…

Disclaimers in Chapter One.

CHAPTER FOUR

**Track and Field**

Peter turned tail and ran, faintly hearing the crash and rustle of his brother and his captor heading in the opposite direction above the pounding of his own heart. His mind whirled with questions and wild unconnected thoughts, but all the while beating a constant tattoo,

_Edmund, Edmund, Edmund…_

Davenport came running out from the path in front of him, scaring about five years off his life, but Peter found himself grabbing his classmate by the upper arms urgently and decisively as though someone else were directing his actions.

"Pevensie! My God! Was that gunfire?"

Davenport's usually insouciant face looked shocked beneath the shaggy, dirty-blond fringe.

_Gunfire! Edmund!_

Peter's mind shouted at him, everything seemed to be happening all at once, he had to do something!

He couldn't understand why he suddenly couldn't see anything, why sounds were getting … fuzzy around the edges. What was happening?

"…ensie! Pevensie!"

Sound and vision came rushing back as Peter took a much needed lungful of air. He was staring at the leafy floor of the wood, Davenport's hand pressing the back of his head down.

"Come on, Pevensie! Don't faint on me, you complete girl."

"Sorry". Peter breathed in deeply again before lifting his head, instantly feeling ashamed of his weakness. He hadn't panicked like that in a very long time.

"All right, old chap?" Peter looked at the honestly concerned eyes of his friend and nodded once, the urgency returning full force, but his senses a bit more ordered this time. He grabbed Davenport's arms again.

"You have to raise the alarm, Dav – get help from somewhere. There's a German airman in the woods. I don't know where he came from, but he's got Edmund!"

Davenport's eyes widened even further. To his credit, he didn't start asking stupid questions, or questioning Peter's sanity. Peter hadn't been a leader for so many years without knowing, and using, the power of sincerity. Yet even he was relieved when Davenport, not usually the most co-operative of boys, seemed to put himself entirely in Peter's hands, asking,

"What do you need me to do?"

"Run back to the village. Find a policeman, soldier, anybody. One of them can alert the school and the surrounding area. Once they know what's going on, you won't have any trouble rounding up help".

Davenport grimaced at the task, and was about to reply when they both heard a rush of feet on the path, close behind where they stood at the edge of the wood. The other boys were starting to reach the woodland path and there would soon be a hoard of them rushing through, creating a racket. Peter thought hard for a moment, feeling slightly sick that he could weigh up the well being of his brother against the well being of the other boys so clinically. He finally decided to let them run through. They would be in no danger – not a large pack of them, and Edmund would do everything in his power to keep the German away from anybody vulnerable.

_If he's physically able to..._

Peter squeezed his eyes shut against the thought, refusing to contemplate for a moment that Edmund might not be fine. He was taunted again by the vision of that pale, dazed face, but was shaken out of his thoughts by Horley's voice shouting at them,

"Davenport, is that you? What are you doing over there? Is that Pevensie with you?"

He'd stopped at the edge of the path and was peering through the thin trees towards them. A couple of other boys slowed up and jostled him as they passed, in obvious curiosity, but Horley simply waved them on. Peter was touched that he had stopped, knowing how keen he had been to run against them in the Ledder.

"Horley – we need your help! Do you mind leaving the race? You can help Davenport".

Caught by the deadly serious tone in Peter's voice, the other boy jogged slowly over, his face a study in curiosity,

"What's up, my lads?"

"In a minute, Horley", said Davenport, looking thoughtfully at Peter, "what are you going to be doing while we're off sounding alarms?"

Peter shrugged at them, impatient of the delay, but knowing he had to convince them of the seriousness of the situation,

"I'll be following them, of course".

"There's no of course about it", came Davenport's exasperated reply, "you do recall he had a gun?"

"I'm well aware of that", Peter ground out in reply, ignoring Horley's splutter of shock, "but if I know where they are, I can lead everyone to them more quickly".

Davenport scowled in frustration, "and how will we know where _you_ are?" he asked, quite reasonably.

Peter was already walking backwards, deeper into the woods, his mind too focused on Edmund's plight to bear another moment of delay.

"I'll think of something", he replied absently.

"Pevensie!" yelled Davenport

"What the bloody hell is going on?" shouted Horley simultaneously.

Peter felt a surge of contrition for landing them with the situation, but the feeling was quickly submerged in another wave of impatience and he just gave Davenport a shrug.

Davenport sighed in defeat, but couldn't resist saying, "Just tell that damned annoying Little Pevensie of yours that he owes me three weeks of boot cleaning!"

Peter couldn't wait any longer.

"Just go, Dav!" he yelled as he turned and left.

"Right-o", said Davenport to his friend's retreating back. "Close your mouth, Horley, you look like a duffer. I'll explain on the way".

They ran off, back towards Ledbury.

Peter didn't stay to see them go - he was already running as quickly as he dared, and as silently as he was able, in the direction his brother had disappeared. Given what had happened a mere five minutes earlier, he knew it was literally a matter of life and death that he was not seen. He had never been the best tracker, despite tuition from the Narnian dogs and wolves, but he knew enough to follow most trails, and the trail left by the airman and Edmund would have been obvious even to a shortsighted hedgehog.

He knew he had Edmund to thank for that and felt a small surge of relief that his brother was at least awake and aware enough to be marking their path in any way he could. Now that he was _doing_ and not worrying, Peter could finally think about what was happening, get past the shock and concentrate on how they were going to get out of the situation intact.

Exactly what the airman was doing and why was a puzzle he had to solve, and quickly. That he had taken Edmund as some sort of insurance was the likeliest explanation, which at least meant that he probably didn't mean harm to his captive, except…well it was obvious he was _already_ harmed in some way. The situation was far too volatile to make any kind of assumptions.

He spotted a couple of small stones on the ground in front of him and barely pausing, he scooped one of them up. Every few yards after that, he stopped to scrape an arrow into the bark of a tree - oaks and elms worked best, birches he left alone as their bark was too pale. Despite what he had said so dismissively to Davenport, he really didn't have the resources to send a signal to the inevitable hue and cry that would be forming back in Ledbury. They would just have to track him, as he was tracking Edmund.

He stopped to scrape at another tree, his eyes and ears scanning ahead. He knew he was on the right path, but didn't want to get too close in case he was spotted. He paused as a faint shout came from somewhere up ahead. It was too faint to make out clearly, but he didn't think it was Edmund. Ducking down to hide his face as much as possible, he scurried forward, getting as close as he dared and peering through the branches ahead, desperate to get a glimpse of his brother. What he saw froze him in his tracks.

_Oh Eddy, what have you done now?_

His brother was being shaken, quite violently. Peter flung his arms around his middle as he crouched amongst the shrubs, literally holding himself back from running forward and grabbing Edmund from the hands that held him so roughly. He groaned softly, but wasn't surprised when Edmund appeared to throw up. His brother had been unconscious when he'd first found them and a head-injury of some sort seemed almost certain now. He hadn't though his sense of urgency could increase, but it could feel it prickling against his skin, making him want to _move, now!_

He couldn't guess what had happened – his first suspicion would normally be that Edmund had said something too annoying to ignore (which was a more common occurrence than Peter would like), but as far as he knew, Edmund didn't know a word of German! That wouldn't necessarily stop him...

Peter had good cause to know that Edmund was a very irritating captive. A few years into their reign, when Edmund had been 17 or 18, a trip to the Lone Islands had been made temporarily exciting when Edmund had been taken up as a hostage by a group of Galman pirates attempting escape from the prison at Avra harbour. It had all happened so quickly that Peter had barely even touched the hilt of his sword when Edmund had been bundled away in a sailcloth at dagger point.

What had followed for Peter was three hours of frantic activity, clipped orders, angry and desperate pacing and the beginnings of despair when their trail had been found leading around the coast to a hidden bay where witnesses had spotted a vessel moored the previous day. He had been quite murderous with outrage when he and the Royal Guard had set off on the indicated track, desperate to reach the bay in time, but knowing it was likely the ship had already sailed. Not five minutes later, they were stopped in their tracks by a small group of sheepish Pirates who unceremoniously dumped a battered but intact Edmund at their feet, then gave themselves up with relief.

Peter never did hear the whole story, despite years of pleading with his alternately smug and embarrassed brother. That fully a third of his kidnappers were later found dead told a story of its own, but Peter was sure that Edmund's tongue had been just as cutting as his concealed knife and the Pirates had surrendered just for a bit of peace and quiet.

So – despite the language barrier, Peter had no doubts that Edmund had managed to find some way of annoying his captor. With a muttered prayer that his irascible brother wouldn't go too far, Peter waited until the figures up ahead were out of sight before quickly and quietly following them.

It was about ten minutes later that Peter realised they had begun to skirt the edge of the woodland. Closing his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the lie of the land and their orientation, Peter realised that they had come around in a circle and were nearing the Southeastern border of the wood – further south than Ledbury and near the village of Eastnor. Whether by chance or design, they had been heading away from the Malvern School runners and, incidentally, away from the school itself, which was now around eight miles to the North.

He was frustrated by not being able to get a good look at Edmund, but dreaded leaving the cover of the woods where it would be much harder for him to follow. He would also have to come up with a plan to signal their location to the authorities. He spared a brief thought for Davenport and Horley - hoping they had managed to have their story taken seriously and acted upon - but had too many immediate worries of his own.

_What are they doing?_

The airman and Edmund were stood at the edge of the wood, about forty feet away from Peter's concealed position. The German was obviously nervous and his gun out of its holster yet again; Peter couldn't tell how Edmund fared from this distance, but he was on his feet at least and not obviously in distress. Edmund suddenly started gesturing further to the southeast, away from the woodlands, over open fields, towards a low, tree-lined hill. Peter studied the hill himself, not absolutely sure, but rather thinking that Eastnor lay in that direction. There were hills beyond that one - wasn't there a castle there as well?

_And how on earth is Ed giving directions when he doesn't speak German? And why?_

That he was being not only listened to, but also taken seriously by his captor was demonstrated moments later when the German grabbed Edmund's upper arm and started moving towards the hill in question. Edmund trotted behind, obviously having difficulty keeping up if his stumbling gait was any indication, and which worried Peter more than all the rest.

_Think, you fool, think!_

Peter was desperate to follow, but knew it was foolhardy on his own, especially if he wasn't sure of the destination. He would have to stay at the edge of the wood and hope that reinforcements came quickly. He chaffed at the necessary delay, again remembering that horrible moment on Avra when he'd realised that Edmund may have been taken beyond any immediate help. If only he knew where they were going!

What was at Eastnor? It was a fairly substantial village, he recalled from his single visit there. He and Edmund had borrowed bicycles and spent a Sunday afternoon riding around the area. They'd even visited the castle, which was some sort of mock-medieval structure sitting on a hill, high above the village. Not at all like Cair Paravel, he'd recalled. Besides, the family who'd built it didn't live there any more and it had been turned into some kind of temporary…Peter paused and fought the urge to smack his forehead…Military Hospital!

That's where they were going! Whether the airman realised it or not, Edmund had done the best he could, leading them away from civilians to the best approximation of a military presence in this sleepy part of the Hereford/Worcestershire border.

Now he was fairly sure of their destination, Peter could afford to delay a bit longer and wait for help. As far as he could remember, the village lay beyond the first hill, but Edmund, he was sure, would try avoid going anywhere near people, so would skirt around the hill to the West and approach the castle from that direction. From his low vantage point, Peter couldn't see the castle yet, but it would easy to spot once level with the first hill.

He alternated between keeping his brother in sight as long as possible, and scraping the word 'Castle' in the bark of the surrounding trees. By the time he'd done it three times, and his hand was getting sore, his two quarries were out of sight. He was desperate to go after them, knew he probably shouldn't and was torn by indecision for a moment.

It was in that moment that everything happened at once.

In the distance came the wincingly penetrating sound of a woman's scream. Peter's breath hitched in his lungs and he came up on his toes, ready to run, just as two men came crashing out of the woods, almost on top of him. So distracted had he been, he hadn't heard their approach at all. They had obviously heard the scream too for there was an urgency about their movements that Peter could relate to.

The blue uniform of the Police was instantly recognisable. One of the men, a youngish face framed with dark hair, ignored Peter completely and kept running. The other stopped, looked at Peter appraising, but without surprise, and said,

"Pevensie?"

Peter opened his mouth to reply, just as an unmistakable sound reached their ears.

Gunshot.

"No, no, no, no…" Peter whispered to himself, and without another glance at the Policeman behind him, and ignoring the officer's authoritative shout, ran as fast as he could in pursuit.

TBC

Next up, Edmund makes a nuisance of himself in they way that only Edmund can.


	5. Chapter 5

An early weekend gift for you all - a chapter I finished more quickly than anticipated. I'm working on the next, so you may get it before the end of the weekend. I'm not completely sure yet as Edmund and Peter have proven to be tricky customers, but I think this story will have nine chapters all together. I've already written part of chapter seven and the last bit of chapter nine, as I'm incapable of doing anything in the correct order, so if you are following the story (which I really hope you are?) it is all planned, mapped and ready to roll, it just needs the fine details added.

Oh, and I would love a review, if you feel like it.

CHAPTER FIVE

**Traffic**

Edmund decided that the fact that German airman dragging him along was young, blonde, blue-eyed and called Pieter was not going to bother him. Why would it? Just like the pounding in his head didn't bother him, nor the constant nausea and the fear for his brother and the ridiculous uncertainty of the whole misadventure.

He tried to quell the sarcastic voice in his head, knowing it could so easily turn to true negativity and sap his strength and his spirit. He had always ridden that fine edge between realism and despair - it was part of his nature - and it was often expressed in sarcasm and irritability. So different from Peter's sunnier nature, and so much less eager or able to trust than Lucy or Susan, he sometimes felt like the family talisman of doom. He also knew his siblings valued him for that very nature and wouldn't change him for the world.

After all, he was still here, and still thriving wasn't he?

_You won't be much longer, if you don't learn to shut up!_

Despite his hopeless attempts at German and Latin, he had still managed to needle his captor into physical violence. He knew he had an knack for hitting people's sore points, had even used it to his advantage on occasion, but it could just as easily heap more trouble on his own head.

And it really didn't help that he tried so hard to be objective and clear-sighted and always ended up tripping over his own reluctantly compassionate nature. He couldn't help but see that as a weakness, despite what Peter said. He knew that this man - he _couldn't_ call him Pieter - was dangerous and volatile. He _knew_ it! But he also knew he was young and frightened; trying so hard to be strong and tough; trying hard to fight against a natural empathy that had urged him to ask for his captive's name, and give his own in return.

In other words, if he hadn't been so _human_, it would have helped Edmund's state of mind enormously.

So, as much as he might have wanted to, he couldn't hate his captor. He was afraid, he was injured, he loathed the situation, he wanted to get the stupid, pointless gun _away_ from the boy wielding it so carelessly, but there was no hatred in his heart - only a kind of reluctant pity that grew stronger with every step. For all he knew, there might be a young British pilot lost somewhere in the woods of Bavaria at this very moment, terrified of what might happen if he were captured.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed in time when Pieter came to a sudden halt and he had to sag at the knees to prevent himself crashing into the airman's back. Startled, he realised that they had come to the edge of the woods - the trees were getting thinner and a line of sun-dappled meadow could be glimpsed beyond the browns and mottled yellows of the forest floor. Pieter looked at him, his eyes both appraising and uncertain, but he tugged at Edmund's arm nonetheless and they emerged cautiously into the sunlight.

There was little warmth in the sun - it was October, after all, but Edmund drew a breath almost of relief to be out of the shade of the trees. He was not claustrophobic, but he liked to know where his escape routes were. He saw a low hill he thought he recognised and going by the position of the sun, thought they were looking southwards. _Eastnor_, he thought, and then racked his brains for everything he could remember to see if the knowledge helped or hindered them.

It didn't help that Pieter was gazing at him suddenly as if he held all the answers. He even let go of Edmund's arm, a moment of absolute, if temporary trust. It was as if he'd suddenly granted Edmund power over their current situation and he wondered just how young the airman was that he so easily relinquished that power. Then he glanced at the gun in its holster and remembered that it was the trump card. As long as it was in the German's hands, he had little choice but to follow and obey.

Or appear to obey.

At the moment they were the same thing; he was thinking about the Military Hospital in the Castle above the town and wondering if he dared lead the airman there. In some ways, it was the ideal location – it was military after all, but hopefully staffed with people with the requisite compassion and desire to help. Could he knowingly put these people in danger? Was it more dangerous to do nothing and be left with a worse situation when night fell, or when his head injury finally got the better of him?

No, it had to be ended quickly, and it was never going to be safe, no matter what he did. Decision made, he gently touched the German's shoulder and indicated with his head that they should move out from the edge of the trees. Pieter startled badly at his touch, and immediately brought his gun out again, his eyes flickering back and forth along the horizon and between the meadow and the hill. If he had been jumpy in the woods, he was like a hunted animal now.

Edmund dreaded what would happen if they came across somebody else unexpectedly. Still moving cautiously, he led the German away from the woods, out into the open. He began to feel terribly exposed, the feeling not helped by the lancing pain in his temples when the bright mid-morning sunshine hit his eyes. He gestured towards the west side of the low hill, desperately trying to remember the German word for 'Hospital', not even sure he'd known it in the first place.

"Hospital", he finally said, giving English a try. He received a blank look in response. He bit his lip, promising himself to pay better attention in language classes from now on. To think he'd once prided himself on his ability to read and speak Old Narnian! He felt entirely stupid now.

"Armee", he tried again, more urgently, gesturing towards where he thought the castle was. It was not accurate, but it was the best he could do. Edmund wasn't surprised when the airman gazed at him in suspicion, but just as he had few choices, his captor had even fewer. The airman's lips compressed to a thin line as he made his decision and grabbing Edmund's upper arm again pulled him towards the path. Edmund bit back a cry as his arm was grasped, knowing that a nasty bruise was forming there, but helpless to do anything about it. The pain from that, and the constant swirling ache in his head caused him to stumble and he fought to keep his feet in the long meadow grass.

Edmund blinked his suddenly unfocused eyes rapidly, fought with the rising nausea yet again and concentrated on their sudden turn of speed. He wondered why on earth Pieter was moving them so quickly, but then caught the blurry shape of the blond head moving back and forth, searching, and the raised gun, finger ready upon the trigger. He must have felt vulnerable out there on the open meadow and was making for the relative safety of the lee of the hill.

At that speed, and in his condition, Edmund could do little but hold on. He tried to pull back, slow the airman's hurried movements, but he was too focused and Edmund feared the consequences of using his weight to bring the man down. He glanced up and saw they were approaching the rough track that led around the bottom of the hill, towards the west. The track curved around a small copse of hazel and hawthorn, before disappearing into the shadow of the hill.

Edmund kept his eye on the path, as much as he was able over the bumpy ground, terrified that they would round that blind corner and find themselves in another situation where the gun would be used. Moving westwards as they were, the sun was high in the south so the small copse to their left appeared dramatically dark against the bright sky. Neither of them saw the slender figure step from the trees to the path until it was too late.

Edmund later remembered the bright red of the startled mouth, open in surprise, but little else as with a sickening jolt, the airman skidded to a stop on the path. Edmund's momentum was unchecked and he barrelled into his captor's side, which sent him spinning, then he came down, his own legs tangling with another pair encased in sturdy brown tweed.

Only barely aware he'd manage to fall on somebody else, he managed to half-twist as he fell, trying not to crush the unfortunate woman. He eventually came to ground, awkwardly and on his back, his head smacking painfully against the rough scrubby grass of the track. Then he could notice nothing more for the pain was so intense, the light in his eyes so bright, he could do nothing but roll weakly onto his side and retch miserably.

Yet all the time this was happening, he was desperately aware of the potential for violence in the situation. He could barely see, couldn't make out where the airman was standing, struggled desperately to stay conscious. He reached out blindly with his hands, trying to locate the woman he'd fallen into, who up to his point, other than a startled intake of air, had not uttered a word.

Then she opened her mouth and screamed.

Long, loud, hysterical. It couldn't fail to draw attention to them. Edmund groaned, forcing open reluctant eyes that watered with the pain and light sensitivity. He could make out the shape of a seated figure next to him on the path. There seemed to be shoulder-length brown hair, a non-descript jersey and tweed trousers but the details escaped him. She had her knees raised, but she leaned back on her hands and seemed to be trying to shuffle backwards, all the while releasing a terrified keening sound.

He wanted to beg her to _shut up!_ Didn't she realise she was putting herself in danger? Edmund could only see the silhouette of Pieter standing over them, but he knew that the gun was being pointed at the girl. Why else would she be screaming? He couldn't see the airman's face, but his harsh breathing and jerky movements were testament to his panic.

_He's going to pull the trigger; he's going to kill her!_

Edmund didn't think, didn't plan and didn't breathe, he just moved. Lunging forward from his half-lying position he clumsily caught the German round his knees with outstretched arms and brought him crashing down even as the gun fired, shatteringly loud, startling the woman into silence.

For a terrible moment, Edmund thought that he'd been too late and the bullet had found her after all, but then he heard a terrified sob and a scrabble of feet. He managed to lift his head just in time to see her rush past them, running blindly away from the scene. The German was cursing and kicking furiously and Edmund, who still had him round the knees, held on as tight as he could, praying to anyone who would listen that she would manage to run as fast and far away as she could. Panicked at the thought that she could still be shot in the back, he squinted up from his prone position, trying to locate the gun.

Part of him could barely comprehend that he hadn't been shot at too, but it wasn't until a particularly vicious kick finally loosed his grip and sent him sprawling that he realised what had happened. The gun lay in a shallow depression at the edge of the path. The German had dropped it as he'd gone down; pinned in place by Edmund's arms, he'd been unable to reach it easily, but now he was loose.

There was a moment of complete silence, a moment of acute awareness, then they both lunged.

Pieter got there first.

"NO!" Edmund yelled, unable to stop the sound ripping from his throat, even as a surge of adrenaline gave him the strength to use his rolling momentum to get to his feet. He didn't know what his next plan was, the proximity of danger had him acting on pure instinct. He whirled, his eyes darting first to the copse, then back the way they'd come, ready to make a break for it…

…and found the barrel of the revolver pressed gently between his eyes.

Edmund slammed his eyes shut and stopped breathing. Nothing happened.

He was aware of his own chest heaving with panic and pain, could hear Pieter breathing quickly too, felt the cold, oily touch of the metal, but still nothing happened. Cautiously, he opened his eyes to find a pair of blue eyes staring intently back.

They stood for a long time, their eyes on each other, their breathing calming to quietness, weirdly in tandem. Edmund felt sick and dizzy and wondered how much longer he'd be able to keep up with this strange battle of wills. Something glinted in the sunlight and his eyes involuntarily glanced down, noticing the small crucifix around the German's neck for the second time.

Edmund felt everything around him become very, very still for a moment. A strange calm came over him, the quality of the silence quite different from the charged atmosphere of a moment before. He found himself whispering his own words,

_Creditus in Deum - trust in God_

It was odd, but Edmund, for all that he understood the meaning and significance of the crucifix, had never really felt the power of the symbol until today. Twice it had drawn his attention at moments of great danger and tension and he couldn't help but wonder why.

"Aslan", he breathed out quietly, but he couldn't understand why he'd said it.

The blue eyes were puzzled now, slightly incredulous. Edmund realised with a jolt that his attention had momentarily been drawn away from the fact that he _had a gun held to his head_. He drew in a long breath, but still in the power of that strange calm, gently brought his arm up and pushed the gun away and down until it pointed at the ground. The blue eyes widened, but Edmund turned, suddenly unable to bear that close attention. He wondered if a head wound could turn a person into a reckless madman.

And is if nothing at all had happened, he gestured back towards the path and the hill beyond the one in whose shadow they stood. They could now see the castle, crenellated and surrounded by trees.

"Armee", said Edmund, his voice rough and cracking with strain.

The German nodded and grasping Edmund by the arm, but not looking at his face or acknowledging him in any way, started moving towards the building. Edmund stumbled along behind.

TBC

Coming soon: Chapter six, in which Peter has trouble with a female and wonders if his brother has finally cracked.


	6. Chapter 6

This Chapter should have been up yesterday, so apologies for the delay. I had an offer of a gig I couldn't turn down, so money won out over art yet again! There will definitely be three more chapters after this one.

Please review! All comments gladly received, whether good, bad or indifferent.

CHAPTER SIX

**Hue and Cry**

Peter, in all the length of his two lives, had never hit a woman (with the exception of Jadis) or even been tempted to do such a thing (again, with the exception of Jadis). Until now.

She was fairly young, with long brown hair and a trim figure but Peter was really not in the mood to care about such things when she was hanging off his neck and wailing incoherently in his ear. The younger of the two policemen had reached her first as she'd run towards them, half-hysterical and breathing in short, panicked gasps. She'd flung herself at the constable in such a way that he'd had little choice but to catch her and swing her round in order to curb her momentum.

This had given Peter an opportunity to catch up. He'd vaguely admired the aplomb with which the young constable had set the frightened woman gently, but firmly aside, and continued on his way, but his gaze had been trained ahead - trying to spot Edmund. He'd caught a glimpse of the distinctive grey-blue of the airman's jacket, but the path twisted round behind a small copse and his brother was completely hidden from view.

Contemplating this, he'd been taken by surprise when slim, but deceptively strong arms had slid around his neck and gripped him hard, forcing him to stop in his tracks. He'd huffed out his breath and staggered backwards slightly; lacking the height and strength of the constable, he'd found himself unable to lift her off him in quite the same way. And, it had to be said, clad in a striped jersey and running shorts, he rather thought he lacked the authority too.

It was at this point that Peter wished he had the effrontery to drop her where she stood. Upbringing and training prevailed and, of course, he didn't. Rather clumsily, he patted her back in what he hoped was a comforting manner, and continued to watch both the copse and the young constable heading in the same direction. His approach had slowed and Peter grew alarmed when the uniformed man halted rather suddenly, then dropped down as if to get out of sight. The woman sobbed loudly in his ear, and not for the first time, he wished that the women he met would behave more like his sisters, who would have been ashamed to carry on is such a matter.

The older policeman had caught up with him and slowed his approach, his eyes also on his colleague who was crouched in the grass about thirty yards ahead of them. Peter thought that the young constable could probably see behind the copse from his vantage point. He urgently wanted to know what was happening, but the stillness of the watching figure made him cautious of shouting out.

The police officer had obviously come to the same conclusion for he stopped next to Peter and they both stood waiting in silence. Peter absently continued to pat the woman on the back, her sobs abating somewhat.

"Peter Pevensie?" the constable asked again, this time in an undertone.

"Yes".

"Sergeant Hughes, Ledbury Constabulary", came the crisp response. "I'd appreciate it if you don't run off again, Sir. I was told the German had a gun, which it's obvious now he does".

"Yes, Sergeant. He also has my brother".

The look Peter turned to the Sergeant was quite respectful, but entirely unapologetic.

The Sergeant nodded in acknowledgement, but with his shrewd eyes and unsmiling mouth, he didn't look the type to make many concessions, so Peter thought it would be in his best interests to keep quiet in the hope he wasn't sent packing.

The young constable stood up, and something about the set of his shoulders made Peter's nervous tension increase instead of relax. Obviously something had happened, or was still happening. The constable glanced at his superior and obvious received some sort of quiet signal for he immediately trotted over to them.

Peter needed to find out what had happened and could concentrate on little else but Edmund, but was feeling severely encumbered. He finally decided that even chivalry could be taken too far and attempted to prise the woman away from his neck.

"Sergeant, could you…?"

Sergeant Hughes's half-smile was almost amused as he firmly took the woman by the shoulders and turned her fully around. Ruefully watching the ease with which this was done, Peter told himself he still had a full year of growing to come and shifted impatiently.

"Now, now, Madam, you're quite safe".

A hitched intake of breath and a sniff, "He had…a…a…gun!"

Despite already knowing this - and knowing that the gun had been discharged for a second time with currently unknown consequences, Peter couldn't help but tense up at the words. He really, really hated firearms. For the nameless woman, the realisation of safety had finally sunk in and she was able to talk without crying,

"He shot at me!"

The constable approached, close enough to catch the woman's dramatic words and raised his eyebrows questioningly at his superior. The Sergeant, however, his attention caught by the last statement, was paying close attention to the woman's story.

"You mean he fired the gun?"

"I mean he shot _at _me. If it hadn't been for that other boy, I'd be dead!" She was really quite attractive now that she had stopped crying. Her brown hair swung to the side in counterpoint to her gestures.

Peter, almost itching with impatience fought to stay still and calm.

"What do you mean?"

"He got in the way!"

There was a complete silence. Peter fancied he could feel the blood draining away from his face. He felt quite cold.

"He…what?" It came out almost in a whisper.

The Sergeant glanced at him, his brow furrowed in concern.

"It's all right, Sir! He didn't…" the Constable hurriedly tried to fill the silence

"Oh! I didn't mean…" the woman spoke simultaneously, her eyes widening with realisation as she caught the look on Peter's face.

The Sergeant glanced to the constable, then back again, intent and serious,

"Well?"

The woman took a deep breath, "Sorry, I mean, he pushed the soldier out of the way. I'm not sure how as he was on the ground at the time, but I saw him holding that man's legs when I ran away."

Peter swallowed and looked away from them, relieved and nervous with equal measure. He also couldn't help but feel irrationally and unfairly resentful that she'd run away, despite the fact that it was exactly what Edmund had intended her to do. He did his best to keep his shamefully ungenerous thoughts to himself and keep his mind on what he…they…were going to do next.

The young constable shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, glancing at Peter as he did so,

"I don't think the Jerry was too pleased by that", he said, eventually.

Peter swung back, teeth clenched in apprehension,

_Oh Aslan, Ed, what now?_

"I spotted them, standing near that little patch of trees", the constable he pointed back to the hill, and the sharp attention of his audience would probably have gratified him in any other situation. "I thought they were just standing there, at first", he continued, "then I realised that the Jerry had his gun out and was…" he paused, looked at Peter, then stumbled over his words as he finished, "…he was…um…holding it up to the lad's head".

Peter stared at the discomforted young man. He told himself that they had only heard one gunshot. Edmund was _fine_. Well, still alive, at any rate; fine would have to wait.

"Then?"

The constable shrugged as though he didn't quite believe the next bit, despite having seen it with his own eyes

"The lad just...pushed the gun away".

"He...pushed?" Peter managed in a voice quite unlike his own.

The constable was peering at him in curiosity.

"Your brother, Sir?"

"I...yes. Yes he is".

"Brave lad!"

Peter stared back, not replying. Brave? Well, yes of course; he was also sometimes rash, but he'd never done anything quite so reckless before.

"That's as may be", said the Sergeant, his voice betraying his impatience with his constable's awe, "but we have to get back on their trail. It's doubtful they're heading for Eastnor, but I'd like to know exactly where they _are_ going so no more civilians are put at risk".

He looked hard at Peter as he said this, both his look and tone implying that schoolboys had no place in this escapade, no matter how brave they happened to be.

Peter knew he had that argument to face later – for the moment, his first priority had to be Edmund,

"I think they're going up to the Castle – you know, the Military Hospital? At least...I'm pretty sure that Ed will try and get the German there, if he can".

The Sergeant nodded as if this had already occurred to him. He looked at Peter closely,

"Do you think he can?"

There was only one answer to that.

"Yes".

"Right then". The Sergeant squared his shoulders, his voice becoming decisive. He completely took charge at that moment and Peter knew his chances of tagging along had suddenly narrowed dramatically.

"There was already an alert out when your friends came to the station, which is why we were here so quickly. We thought the aircraft had come down further North towards Worcester, but we were still prepared. There's a small troop of trainees with the Gloucester regiment in Stroud who are on their way up here and as well as the Police Force, we've got ARP and Firemen on alert as well. We just need to get them all to the same place now".

Peter was rather impressed at the speed the pursuit had been put together. However, the rather close look that Sergeant Hughes was giving him made his heart sink. He had a feeling his role was about to change.

"Constable Merrick and I will follow on foot – I need you to run to Eastnor and tell the Sergeant on duty everything you know..."

"No!" The denial was out before Peter could stop it.

The Sergeant was unmoved,

"I know it's your brother, and you've done well up to now, but I can't knowingly send a _child_ after an enemy soldier with a gun!"

_Oh, if only you knew..._

"But, Edmund…he..." He had to give it another try, for his own peace of mind, even though he knew it would be useless.

The Sergeant's eyes softened slightly, but his voice was as decisive as ever,

"I will do everything I can for your brother, my lad, but I can't do that if I'm looking out for you too".

_Ouch!_

Well, he was absolutely right. He was also completely wrong, but there was no way that Peter could explain why. He also belatedly realised that the Sergeant had stopped calling him 'Sir'. The preservation of class boundaries had no place when the officer was sure of his ground, and it was a message received and understood.

Besides which, the castle was really not that far from the village. If he ran...

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The man may only have been a Sergeant, but if he wasn't destined for Chief or Superintendant, Peter didn't know who was.

The Sergeant, having had the response he expected had already moved on.

"Madam – I'm sorry we have to be so abrupt. Can I take your name and address? I may have to ask you to come down to your nearest Station to make a statement later?"

The woman, heartened by his masterful attitude, nodded meekly but was obviously wishing herself miles away from the scene.

"Of course – It's Beryl Morris. I live in Eastnor, I'll go down to the Station this evening".

"I'd advise you to go straight home – go quickly and take the other path", the Sergeant directed, his voice now verging on the avuncular. He pointed to the south side of the hill. He glanced at Peter,

"I'd ask young Pevensie here to escort you, but..."

Peter had to bite his tongue to avoid shouting out in horror. Despite his best efforts, Beryl Morris must have seen something in his face for she looked at him rather ruefully. She eventually shrugged and gave him a smile and for the first time, Peter could look at her with an emotion that wasn't annoyance.

He also took it as permission. Without acknowledging the strangely assorted party, he turned and sprinted to the south, driving himself hard because he wanted to be following Edmund, but couldn't, but was glad to be doing _something_ useful nonetheless and was going to do it well, if he could.

_The lad just...pushed the gun away_

_Good Lord, Ed! What were you thinking?_

The scene played out in his head – imagined, but vivid all the same. That the airman was scared to the point of being unbalanced was obvious, but what did that make Edmund? Peter thought he had a head injury of some sort, but would that also make him hazard his life in such a way? Just how desperate was his situation?

He wanted, no _needed_ to be following his brother. Running in the other direction seemed unnatural, almost obscene. He ran faster as if the thought alone had made him slow down. He was in grave danger of hitting a rabbit hole and rolling into town like boulder in a rockslide, but he was reluctant to abate his pace. He would find the Police Station, tell his story, slip off when no one was looking, and then run up the hill to the Castle. Simple.

In a surprisingly short time, he had rounded the hill and could see the roofs of several cottages beyond the hedgerows. He vaguely remembered the layout of the village from his one visit and headed for the Church spire as soon as it came into view as it was just off the village green. The Police Station was bound to be around there somewhere.

He also saw Eastnor Castle for the first time, high on a hill to the northeast of the village. He was not exactly running towards it at the moment, but he didn't think it looked more than a mile from the village centre, albeit uphill.

When he reached the village green, it became obvious what Sergeant Hughes had meant about putting the neighbouring village stations on alert. There were several uniformed men around – not just police constables, but firemen and ARP wardens too, with their distinctive tin helmets. Unwilling to waste time, he simply ran towards a knot of them, shouting out for the Police Station. In no time at all, he was being ushered before the Eastnor Sergeant. They seemed to know who he was and the mention of Sergeant Hughes certainly gave him an attentive hearing. It was not everyday an enemy combatant turned up on the doorstep of a sleepy rural village, and these men, who all desired to serve, gave it their most serious attention.

Peter, who had accepted a seat (which he was quite glad of), but refused the tea, had little choice but to watch and wait while activity swirled around him. The feeling that he was being moved further and further away from the centre of events began to gnaw at him. It was frustrating and made him feel helpless and impotent, but he also didn't know what to do to prevent it. He did his best to answer the questions thrown at him carefully and fully, and was gratified to get a respectful nod for his efforts, but it wasn't what he needed to be doing. He felt as though he was about to burst out of his skin.

"Collins? Fetch Lewis for me! He's outside the Post Office". The Eastnor Sergeant, Maddox, younger than Hughes, the uniform obviously still rather new and shiny, barked orders left and right, even while he took in Peter's story.

"Sir?" A fresh-faced constable appeared, perhaps the same age as Merrick, but about half the girth.

"There're a few dozen lads of the Gloucestershire regiment coming up from Stroud. They'll be heading for Ledbury, but they'll be coming through here first. Flag them down and send them straight up to the Castle".

"Yes, Sarge!" He disappeared.

Maddox stood, reaching for the helmet that lay on the table to his left. Peter also got to his feet, unwilling to be overlooked when decisions were being made.

Maddox looked at him kindly. Peter resisted the urge to protest.

"You had best stay here, Sir. One of the lads will run you back to the school later. I'm going to the Castle with as many men as we can spare. We'll have your brother back in no time".

_No, no, no! Not this again!_

Maddox had all the confidence that Hughes had possessed, but none of the assurance. Peter was reluctant to trust him as he'd trusted the older Sergeant. Besides, he wasn't going to sit around waiting like a maiden in a tower.

"Sergeant! There must be something I can do to help? I know my brother very well. If I'm there, I'll..."

Maddox smiled, infuriatingly patronising.

"You've been very helpful so far! Not to worry, we'll take it from here. You can trust us with your brother – the Jerry doesn't stand a chance!"

_Oh dear God! They're going to get him killed! Aslan, if you ever loved me, please, please get me up there somehow!_

There was only one thing for it. He'd have to wait until they'd left, then follow them up, keeping out of sight. It wasn't ideal, and would probably get him there too late, but it was the only choice he had.

Maddox stopped short of patting him on the head, but within five minutes, had rounded up his party and was making for the Castle. It seemed that only one official car was available, so half the men had to go on foot and Peter had to wait until the whole party had disappeared before he could slip out of the village. Smiling sweetly at the constable at the duty desk, he sauntered outside without any protests, and stood for a moment, bathed in weak sunshine, his eyes flicking to and fro, picking his route. He would wait five minutes.

Three minutes later, an open army truck drove into town and Peter watched, suddenly gleeful, as Lewis flagged it down, as ordered. Before he had time to second-guess himself, he had sneaked around the back of the truck. There was no way he could get on board without anyone noticing, but maybe, just maybe, he could charm his way on.

There were eight very young, very green, soldiers in the back of the truck. They had obviously never been near a battlefield and excitement shone in their eyes at the prospect of engaging with the enemy. Peter was not unfamiliar with the look. One of them gave him a questioning look as he approached.

"I say, chaps", he said, his voice low, "my name's Pevensie. I'm the one that led you all here, and that bloody German's got my brother! Any room for me?"

It was risky and very impudent, but Peter let all of his natural sincerity shine through, as well as his determination and eagerness. A couple of the recruits looked at him doubtfully, but most grinned at his cheek. They were not very much removed in age, after all.

Almost as a man, they looked towards a good-looking, dark-haired soldier sitting at the end of the narrow bench that ran the full length of the truck's flatbed. Obviously the ringleader. Also, obviously, a bit of a rule breaker.

The young soldier held out a hand,

"Why not? We'll round up Jerry in no time at all. Just stay out of sight, and for God's sake don't leave the truck!"

Peter didn't need to hear the conditions; he'd worry about them when he had to. Grinning suddenly, he grabbed the forearm held out to him and was hauled into the truck even as it shot off down the rutted main road of the village.

He decided there and then that soldiers were definitely his favourite people and that Aslan had a very funny way of answering prayers.

TBC

Coming Soon: Chapter 7 in which Edmund finds there is no way out and has an epiphany all at the same time.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimers in Part One

A/N: This was supposed to be the shortest chapter, but has turned into the longest so far. I couldn't get Edmund to stop thinking. That boy…

Anyway, this Chapter contains a hint of the plot bunny that got this whole story started.

My thanks to everyone who has been kind enough to review so far - any more will be gratefully received!

CHAPTER SEVEN

**End of the line**

Edmund followed in a daze, barely noticing that Pieter had to literally haul him over the stile at the end of the path. He made it to the top, but the step down on the other side looked like an unassailable cliff to his blurry eyes. He was pulled too hard and too early, his trailing foot caught on the wood at the top, and he was sprawling, clumsy and awkward on the grass verge. He scrambled to get his feet back under him, but couldn't quite manage it and was literally dragged onto the gravelly tarmac at the edge of the road.

Adrenaline and fear had obviously given Pieter strength beyond his slender frame, but the combination of Edmund's dead weight and the hard surface of the road forced him to stop and wait while Edmund got his feet under him again and they could continue.

Edmund managed it, but not without difficulty. Whatever injury he had done to his head had not been improved by falling over that poor woman. The dizziness and nausea were with him constantly and he had an overwhelming desire to sleep and let it all slip away. He knew that would be the most dangerous thing he could do, but holding off unconsciousness was becoming the most difficult part of his adventure so far.

He was being pulled again. His arm hurt. In his confused, unhappy mind, he started to count the things that he hated about this. He hated feeling so helpless. He hated not knowing if he was doing the right thing. He hated not being with Peter. Most of all, he hated that he couldn't communicate with his captor. King Edmund had been a statesman and a judge. He'd known how to mediate, how to see to the heart of a matter, how to temper justice and compassion, yet all of those things were done with words. When you had no words, what was left?

He was desperately glad that it was he and not Peter in this position, but he also knew that his brother would have known what to do, because Peter didn't need words – he just _was_. As a King he had been kind and fair, gentle and compassionate, fierce, loyal and loving. As Peter, he was...all of those things too. He had never changed, for he had never acted a part. To know him was to trust him and what his namesake lacked and needed - this frightened, dangerous boy – was trust.

But Edmund had long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't his brother. He was fine with that – it had taken him a while to find his own assurance, but he'd found that his strengths lay elsewhere. He was the clever one, the thinker, and the doubter. Peter needed him for that. Besides, as he'd told his brother once, if he wasn't around, who was to stop Peter turning into an insufferable prig?

He smiled at the memory, momentarily distracted from the fear and discomfort. Then he felt vaguely surprised that he could be distracted at all. He could be moments from danger, but his mind insisted on wondering about, flitting from one thought to the next. He couldn't help but remember the first and only time he'd been drunk (and the less said about that the better), but it had felt like this. He'd hated being out of control then, and this was worse.

He was very sleepy.

They were steadily climbing now. Although the road was surfaced for motor vehicles, it obviously wasn't used very often for it was very quiet in the dappled sunlight. It curved around as it climbed up to the Castle. They walked very near the verge where a few thin trees competed with each other for light. They heard the drone of a far-off engine and a wood pigeon cooed. Edmund wanted a nap - he hoped Peter wouldn't laugh at him...

_Where is Peter?_

The thought came to him sluggishly and he looked around, head swimming, as though expecting to see his brother there with them. He couldn't quite remember why that was unlikely. It was difficult to think when his arm hurt so much. He looked down, frowning and stopped to shake his arm, trying to dislodge the hand he saw there.

When he was suddenly tugged again, quite sharply, and a voice said, "Gekommen!" he remembered when and where he was. Edmund licked suddenly dry lips, frightened now that he wouldn't even make it as far as the castle.

Perhaps if he closed his eyes for a moment?

He was pulled again and he stumbled on, but he really couldn't do it any more. He needed to rest, so he could think. He really couldn't think with all this walking around. He needed to make a plan so he could stop people dying. Especially Peter. That was really important.

He sat down.

A hand was tugging at him and a voice was shouting, but he wasn't really paying attention. It felt good to sit down, but it might be better if he was lying. He was distracted by a low humming noise behind him. Was that a bee?

Hands shook him, a voice shouted, "Edmund!" but there was something strange about the way his name sounded. The humming noise got louder. He blinked and a face appeared in front of him, a wave of blond hair.

"'Lo Peter", he slurred, his face breaking out in a smile.

The shaking stopped for a moment, but the droning noise got louder, rising in pitch until there was a crunching noise and it dropped low again.

"Not a bee", he told Peter.

His name was being called again, which seemed a bit silly, as Peter knew it was him. What was that noise? He thought it was a car, but they didn't have cars in Narnia...

He had the sensation of being lifted, but his head was too heavy to follow and it rolled back. He closed his eyes...

...

...and opened them.

He could see his hand lying on a pile of leaves, right in front of his face. He blinked at it a couple of times, then gingerly moved his head. It ached abhominably, but it was relatively clear. He wasn't on the road anymore and he could hear the distant rush of running water.

He turned carefully and saw he was not so very far from the road after all; lying in a small ditch below the verge, under cover of the scrubby trees. He had been lying sprawled, as though he'd been rolled down the shallow slope. He probably had. He remembered he'd heard a …car? The events were vague, but he rather thought he couldn't have collapsed at a worse moment for Pieter.

Pieter…

He jerked his head up, ignoring the familiar dizziness. Where was the airman? Not far away as it happened. He was crouched at the edge of the road, his body supported against a low branch. He was half-turned away, but Edmund could see that he held the gun tightly in his right hand. His left was covering his face.

He was crying.

He did it very quietly and with little movement, but Edmund could see the tears slipping slowly down one exposed cheek and dripping off his chin. His heart lurched with pity. Edmund couldn't help it - this man had hurt him badly, had shot at Peter, had held a gun to his head, but even so…he was frightened and a long way from home.

Edmund watched him for a long time, until the tears stopped and he unselfconsciously wiped his face with his sleeve. The blond head looked up, and froze, caught in Edmund's stare and Pieter's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, betraying his age yet again. Edmund tried to push all his resentment and fear away and gazed back steadily, willing the man to see compassion and understanding.

_I have to get him to trust me!_

This didn't need to end badly, but Edmund could see no way out if he couldn't get Pieter to either relinquish the gun, which was admittedly unlikely, or relinquish control. He could hear another engine in the distance, and by the agitated look in Pieter's eyes, he had also noticed the characteristic drone. It was obvious that they were being followed up here. Who knew how many men? If Peter had managed to mobilise any army personnel, there would definitely be guns. Edmund had to end this sooner rather than later.

Slowly and carefully, ignoring his stiffness and pain and the way the trees seemed to dip and sway around him, he stood, his hands held out to the side. It was obvious that Pieter had no direction and no plan – he had wanted to give himself up, but seemed constantly afraid to do so. Would he ever find the courage? Perhaps now that his defences seemed to be weakening, Edmund could get through?

"Pieter!"

He kept his voice low, but threaded through was a tone of command that he'd used before, in another life. He caught the other's attention and held it. Edmund had no choice but to use the words he'd used earlier and hope they were better received this time,

"_In me credite_", he quoted. Then for good measure, "_Credo mihi"_. _Trust me, believe me_.

They both heard the crunch of gears as an approaching vehicle started up the hill. Both turned towards the road. Edmund didn't have much time.

"Ich!" he said forcefully, pointing to himself. He gestured towards the road…_what was German for car?..._ "Auto?"

Pieter's head went back as though in alarm.

Edmund repeated his words and his movements. Would the German understand that he wanted to flag down the rapidly approaching vehicle? He seemed to be catching on if his fervent head shaking was anything to go by,

"Nein", he said forcefully, "Nein!"

"Ja!" said Edmund, opening his arms wider in supplication. "Armee kommen Sie hier! _In me credite_".

Edmund just needed Pieter to trust him enough to do the right thing. Flag down the car, talk quickly, prevent a standoff, _end_ this without bloodshed. The engine noise was louder and deeper than before, so it was probably a truck of some sort. At the speed it was coming, it was going to be too late if he didn't act now.

Edmund edged towards the road, keeping Pieter in his sights.

"Nein!" said Pieter again, but more weakly,

Edmund moved further out. He knew he could be seen from the road. The truck was rounding the corner below them.

"Nein!" The cry came again. Pieter's face twisted, his gun came up and pointed at Edmund, but he couldn't keep it steady.

_He's not going to shoot – he didn't before. He's not going to shoot!_

Edmund stepped out into the road.

For the third time, Pieter fired the gun.

Edmund yelled, the sound tearing out of him, borne of frustration and fear. He really, _really_ didn't want to die. The bullet hit gravel, burying itself in the ground, but sending up chips of granite that stung his legs. Behind him, he heard shouts of alarm, the screech and rattle of brakes, the rumble of an overstressed engine.

"Ed!"

_Oh God, that's Peter!_

Edmund tore his eyes away from the gun, made to turn towards his brother's voice. Maybe if he ran...

The gun fired again, hitting the side of the truck with a metallic twang and a shower of sparks. There was more yelling, the sound of feet, then the gun was pressed against his temple, a grey-clad arm snaked around his neck and he was being dragged away from the road, being pulled through the trees and low shrubs. He could feel the sharp twigs ripping at his clothes, tearing at his skin.

He wanted to cry. He'd been so close to reaching the terrified man, he was sure of it!

He was yanked unceremoniously out of the trees and they seemed to be on a rough path, steep and crumbling, but passable. There were sounds of pursuit, but Edmund knew very well that as long as he was in danger, no one would try anything rash or heroic.

In other words, nothing had changed.

Except that he was half-choking on the arm pressed against his throat, and he could feel the slick cold of the pistol barrel digging into his skin. He couldn't see where he was going and his feet kept slipping on the rocky path. The going was too hard like this and Pieter shifted his grip, grabbing Edmund's painful upper arm again so he could walk forwards, but kept the gun to his head.

Edmund risked a glance up and saw that they were closer to the castle than he had realised. The path they were on was steeper than the road, but offered a more direct route. The sound of running water was also much louder and he could see something sparkling and shimmering ahead of them.

He also glanced sideways to catch a look at Pieter's face. What he saw there destroyed what little hope he had left; whatever thoughts and feelings the man had possessed were now buried under a kind of feral terror. There would be no giving himself up at the end of this – Edmund doubted he even knew where he was running to or why he was running. In which case, Edmund didn't know why Pieter didn't just shoot him where they stood and go on alone. Maybe he took Edmund with him because he didn't know what else to do.

Edmund could relate to that. He didn't know what to do either, and felt like a failure and a fraud. Whether it was exhaustion in the wake of his terror, or the concussion, or both, but he started to feel that strange confused lethargy come over him. He wouldn't have much more time to act, even if he _could_ come up with some last-ditch plan.

The sound of water rose to a roar and they found themselves at the edge of a weir. The castle rose above them, looking benign in the mid-afternoon sunshine. There was a low, slim footbridge over the weir and the water tripped and roared underneath it, the level obviously swelled by recent rains. Edmund didn't know where the stream rose, but it obviously fed a small artificial lake that lay on one side of the castle gardens – the still waters under the footbridge fell sharply away down the weir and then tumbled fast and furious down the valley, the stream disappearing into woods a little way below them.

Edmund had a feeling they'd reached the end of the road. Pieter staggered onto the bridge, but with a feeling of inevitability, it became obvious that it was a dead end. A number of running figures emerged from the direction of the castle and gathered on the flat gravelled area. There was shouting, which was quickly quietened when the men took in the scene before them. Edmund could see khaki and blue uniforms intermingled, even an ARP warden. The men in khaki carried guns.

Pieter twisted, shoving Edmund back the way they came, but about six young men, all wearing army uniforms and armed, came up the path and ranged themselves at the foot of the bridge. Pieter twisted again, his breath coming harshly now so that it sounded like a sob.

No way out.

It was oddly quiet. Events had all led them here over the past couple of hours, but now they were here, nobody seemed to know what to do. A robin sang happily in the distance.

"Are you all right, son?"

The voice came from the Castle side of the bridge and Edmund couldn't make out who had spoken. Had that been addressed to him? What was a stupid thing to say – did he look all right? He gaped incredulously and Pieter answered for him, pulling him tighter and levelling the gun more threateningly. He didn't need words to make his meaning plain.

_Now see what you've done!_

Edmund fought the urge to giggle hysterically, then felt suddenly sleepy again, his knees starting to sag. Pieter's hand tightened on his arm and he was pulled upright. The pain helped to clear his mind.

Edmund swung his head round, back towards the path they had climbed. Where was Peter? He couldn't spot the familiar form amongst the khaki-clad men, but a flash of blond caught his eye to the left of their position and he was suddenly staring into his brother's eyes. Peter was crouched at the edge of the torrent, downstream from the bridge, his eyes wide and full of so many emotions, Edmund couldn't untangle them.

Absolute trust. That's what Edmund could feel. Even in this terrible impasse, when neither knew what to do, they trusted each other nonetheless. It comforted him. Edmund could find it in himself to smile at his brother because the feeling was so familiar. Only Peter could calm him this way. That is, only Peter and…Aslan.

_Trust_, he thought. _Trust_.

He had used the word a lot today. He had told Pieter to trust in God, he had asked Pieter to trust _him_. But did _he_ trust in God? Had he been doing this wrong after all? He reluctantly dropped his brother's gaze and looked back at Pieter, eyes dropping to the crucifix around his neck. It had been giving him a strange feeling all day and he was beginning to understand why.

_Trust_. He trusted Peter. He trusted Aslan. Did he trust God? Wasn't it the same thing? Pieter had lost his own sense of trust; the soldiers at the bridge couldn't do anything while he still held Edmund in his grasp. He had to break the impasse.

Calm now, he looked again at Peter, looked at the gush of water below him and made his decision.

With a deft twist of his arm, he simultaneously sank down, slipping out of Pieter's grasp easily and simply, as he could have done at almost any time. Before Pieter could react, Edmund bent his knees to the left, leaned, and toppled quietly off the bridge and into the water below.

He heard a shout, heard what sounded like a gunshot, and then all sound was confused and swept up in a deafening rush. Strangely, he didn't feel the moment he hit the water; he seemed to fall for a long time, tumbling over and over, slow and gentle, as though he were a leaf being batted playfully back and forth by the paws of a lion.

Then everything stopped.

TBC

Coming soon: Chapter Eight, in which Peter is kept very busy indeed.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimers in Part One

A/N: It occurs to me that I promised some people I would get the next chapter up on Saturday. I apologise in advance, but I'm afraid it's a bit early! I'll do my best to finish the whole story by the end of the weekend, then maybe I can get back to reading stories instead of writing them!

My thanks to all the lovely reviewers I haven't been able to thank personally.

CHAPTER EIGHT

**Counting the cost**

Peter hit the water moments before his brother. Later he was never sure exactly how he'd read Edmund's intention; maybe it had been the calm look on his face, the way he looked at the water as though assessing it; whatever it had been, Peter had reacted to it fast, plunging into the shockingly cold water without a moment's thought.

The cold of the water squeezed the breath out of his lungs and he struggled to the surface, gasping. It was not deep – he could feel boulders under his feet, but the current was strong and the cold sapped his strength very quickly. He thought he'd heard a gunshot, and there seemed to be a lot of shouting going on, but he ignored everything but his urgent need to reach his brother. He surfaced in time to see Edmund's slender form tip over the weir, but then it disappeared from view and Peter, struggling to reach the middle of the stream, knew that his body had been pulled under by the force of the water coming over the short fall.

Peter waded chest deep, using his arms to propel him along as he struggled upstream against the current. His heart was beating fast and furious so that he fancied he could hear it over the deafening tumble of the water and the sunlight refracting off the dancing surface gave the scene a weird unreal look as though he was viewing it through a kaleidoscope. Something heavy bumped against his legs and he reeled back, almost loosing his footing, then he felt soggy wool under his hands and Edmund's body bobbed to the surface, directly in front of him. Face down.

Not thinking, not feeling, just reacting, Peter got his arms around his brother's waist and heaved so that Edmund flopped over onto his back, water streaming over his still, white face. The manoeuvre upset Peter's centre of balance so his feet came up and he was dragged back downstream. He let it happen for a moment, grappling with the awkward, limp weight of Edmund, trying to keep his face above water, then kicked furiously with his legs, angling for the castle side of the bank.

Arms caught him from behind. He was vaguely aware of voices shouting encouragement. There were two…three of the young soldiers in the water, pulling him to safety, grasping Edmund's limp form, lifting him up to the bank where more willing arms waited. Peter was heaved gracelessly onto the bank, but he was only aware of a strange empty feeling where Edmund had been pulled away from him; looked up to see his brother's form being passed from hand to hand, someone lifting him like a child and running for the castle, out of sight.

He needed to follow. It felt wrong to be left behind again. He struggled against the hands helping him onto the bank, fighting to get his numb, heavy legs to support his weight. Finally he made it upright, then staggered again as his shoulders were grasped and a young, earnest face looked into his,

"Well done, lad", said a voice in the soft, slurred accent of the three counties, "That was quick work".

_Quick work?_

It had felt like he'd been in the water a lifetime. Edmund's white face swam for a moment in front of his eyes and it hit him then, hard and swift, that he didn't even know if his brother still lived. Then every emotion he'd been suppressing since seeing Edmund fall came tearing through him in a painful rush, crumpling his face and forcing him to lean forward as if to contain it. The hands steadied him, and then a blanket appeared from somewhere and was draped over his shoulders. It was grey and scratchy and didn't smell very nice, but it bolstered him while he fought to gain control.

_Edmund_. It was all that his mind had room for. _Ed._

The hands moved him again, propelling him towards the castle, but he didn't fight them this time because he was going where he needed to be.

"Poor bugger", came a voice beside him, which jolted Peter enough that he lifted his head and looked to the left. They were passing the end of the footbridge and men swarmed over it, exclaiming; nobody seemed to be giving orders. Oddly, it was only then, with a queer feeling of dislocation, that Peter remembered what had brought them here in the first place. But events had already moved beyond those frantic hours of pursuit, for he saw the blond hair between booted feet and it was obvious by the

staring blue eyes and the trails of blood across the cheek and temple that the German was quite dead.

Peter turned away.

* * *

"…he should regain consciousness within a few hours. The head injury is not serious and there's no sign of a fracture. Possibly the shock of the water contributed to his current state - fortunately, his lungs appear quite clear, so that's…"

Peter stared as the Doctor talked. He tried to take it all in, but his body had crashed hard and it was all he could do to keep the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A nurse had tried to make him change out of his soggy running kit but he hadn't wanted to move from the chair outside the ward. It was as close to Edmund as they had allowed him to get while he was being examined. Beyond learning the welcome fact that Edmund was alive and breathing, he had been ignored for over an hour. Sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a quiet corridor he'd been aware of constant activity and noise beyond the double doors at the far end, but could not motivate himself enough to care.

There had been the sound of more cars arriving, the crunch of gravel underfoot. Shouts and orders. The banging of doors as something heavy was manoeuvred inside. The ringing of a telephone. He had only stirred when the Doctor arrived.

They let him see Edmund, eventually. He lay straight, tucked tightly under white sheets. Somebody had put an oversized pair of pyjamas on him that looked so ridiculous; Peter resolved that he would eventually tease Ed mercilessly over them. He tried to smile, but his brother's face was pale and still and his hair had been smoothed into a neat side parting so he looked quite unlike himself.

Then they threw him out, and many more people arrived, uniformed and official. Peter was pointed at a few times and one of the men nodded to him, but he was largely ignored until the double doors swung open again and his Headmaster walked in. Peter gaped, astonished that he and Edmund merited such a visit. He fixed Peter with a steady glare from behind the spectacles perched on the end of his nose, then ignored him in favour of a succession of uniformed men. They all shook hands with each other and looked serious and self-important. Peter, who had attended many an official function in his life, snorted softly.

"Well, Pevensie, you've had a busy morning! I'm sorry for the sake of your Cap record you missed the Run, but...hmm...well. Not hurt are you, boy? Jolly good! Come along!"

Peter hurried along in the wake of the Headmaster as he strode back down the corridor and headed for the entrance hall. The Headmaster's questions were nearly always rhetorical and he rarely required a response

"I'll take you back to school, but we'll stop at the Post Office first so you can send your mother a telegram. I don't see any necessity for her to come up, but she will be the best judge of that…"

Peter's step faltered and his mind shied away from thinking about what he was going to say to their mother. Should he ask her to come? He didn't think Edmund would like that. Should he wait? But what if Edmund…got worse? And was Edmund staying here, miles away from the school, away from him?

"Sir, where is Edmund going to stay?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Pevensie. They don't want him here! Far too busy, it's not an appropriate place for chaps your age. They'll send him up to us by ambulance later. No doubt he'll be awake by then; we'll have him on top form in no time!"

The Headmaster droned on and Peter could only be glad he wasn't required to speak.

* * *

Edmund's ambulance had drawn up in front of the school at six o'clock, just as the boys were filing in for dinner, so Peter, much to his annoyance had been forced to fight his way through an excited crowd to reach him. He was tired, exasperated and worried and had been successfully avoiding their questions for the three hours he had been hiding in the dorms; he didn't want to have to run the gauntlet of curious boys now that Edmund was finally here.

Hodgkiss, the Geography Master scattered the crowds, but a whole knot of boys still lay in wait for him at the entrance hall, so Peter admitted defeat and ducked into the side door by the gymnasium and ran up the back staircase near the Latin Master's office. When he reached the infirmary, the ambulance men were just leaving, so he slipped through the door. He wasn't really supposed to be here without permission, but he and Matron had something of an understanding; she had quickly realised that Edmund always got better more quickly when Peter was allowed to sit at his bedside and talk to him. She allowed it as long as he was quiet and…well what the Headmaster didn't know couldn't bother him.

She was smoothing the sheet on Edmund's bed when he stepped quietly through the door and she looked up, her face grave, and then softening as she recognised him.

"He hasn't woken, yet?" His voice was soft and tentative.

"No", Matron said, matter-of-factly, "but that's not really a surprise, from what I hear. Don't worry, my dear, he'll wake up when he's ready". She patted his hand as she passed him in the doorway.

"There are some biscuits in the tin if you get hungry, and I expect you in bed before nine!" she said kindly, and then quietly left the room.

Edmund looked exactly the same as he had in the hospital - his face white and expressionless. He didn't look asleep, he looked…absent. So much so that Peter, finally alone with him, found he missed him with a dull ache in his chest. He pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the covers. One of his hands drifted down and tentatively wrapped around Edmund's forearm.

"Hello, Ed". Peter paused, made almost shy by the sound of his own voice in the quiet room. He swallowed several times around the dryness of his throat.

"I sent a telegram to Mother. I didn't have any money either, had to borrow a few shillings from old Paxman. I didn't know what to say to her; I didn't think you'd want her to come up and fuss, but if you don't…wake up soon…but you will, won't you Ed?"

Peter swallowed again, remembering the difficulty he'd had, staring at the telegram form as though he hated it. What could he say that didn't sound either over dramatic or desperate? Besides, he felt he ought to keep to the minimum ten words to keep it cheap. It wasn't his money! In the end he settled for something that was wildly inaccurate, but combined (he hoped) both urgency and reassurance.

ED ILL NOT DANGEROUSLY STOP PLEASE TELEPHONE TOMORROW LOVE PETER

"I hope Mother doesn't get frightened when she sees the telegram. I don't like them - they never bring good news. I'll have to think of what to tell her when she telephones tomorrow, which reminds me, I need to tell the Bursar to expect a call". Peter paused, disturbed at his own rambling, but feeling oddly relieved by it. He'd hardly spoken since he'd pulled Edmund from the water.

"Paxman said that the chaps in London don't want us to talk too much about what happened today, but I suppose I should tell Mother. I think maybe I should tell Susan and Lu as well, in case they hear it from somewhere else - you know what gossip is like round here. Maybe I'll write a letter. Davenport and Horley have been pretty decent, but everyone else wants to know the whole story - I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. I didn't do very much except run after you a lot. Ed…I want you to wake up and tell me about it. What happened to you?"

Peter rubbed his eyes with his free hand. After his brief emotional collapse at the water's edge, he'd shoved everything neatly back in its box, but it was starting to leak out again. The numbness he'd been feeling all afternoon was leaching away, leaving him raw and exposed. This time, he didn't try to stop it.

"He's dead, you know. The airman. He…shot himself. No one's quite sure why. I think he just didn't know what else to do". Peter moved his other hand so that both were clutching Edmund's arm. He was getting to the difficult bit; the part of the story that had disturbed him more than it should have,

"…And Ed, I'm sorry, but Paxman told me something; I don't know if you knew this…his name. His name was Pieter. Pieter Hans Muller. He was nineteen years old. As I say, I don't know if you knew that. If you did, I'm…sorry. He was only two years older than me, you know? Of course you know…" Peter broke off and began rubbing Edmund's hand; warming it as though it were still cold from the water. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

"I hated him. The whole time he had you, I hated him because he…hurt you and frightened you. But I didn't want him to die, not really. I wanted this to have not happened. I want you to wake up".

Peter swallowed again, a fine tremor running through his arms.

"I…Ed…I keep seeing it. I keep seeing you falling from the bridge. I sort of understand why you did it, but I don't…I don't know why you thought you were less important than anyone else. Why you thought you could risk yourself like that. I couldn't bear it if you…"

Peter laid his forehead against the bed sheets, unable to speak any more. And if any tears fell, they were quickly soaked up in the soft cotton and disappeared without trace.

* * *

Peter returned to the infirmary on his way to breakfast, but Edmund still slept. He attended lessons, all in a daze, rushing out at the end to avoid the questions of the other boys. At lunch, he was called to the Bursar's office for the expected telephone call and told his alarmed mother in short, halting sentences, what had happened the day before. Or, at least, a heavily edited version. She still wanted to come up, but Peter, not without difficulty, persuaded her not to, unless things didn't change.

Edmund still slept.

During afternoon lessons, he was told to go to the Headmaster's office at teatime. Taking tea with Paxman was considered to be an honour, and was therefore to be avoided at all costs. Luckily Davenport and Horley were invited too. Paxman, having been deprived of being allowed to publicly praise his boys for their heroic efforts, had to be content with a hearty handshake in private. Peter disliked taking any thanks without Edmund getting his share, but was relieved that it was the end of the matter. Davenport and Horley rather poorly concealed their disappointed at the lack of reward as they were inclined to think their role in the drama, although small, had been highly significant.

By dinnertime, Peter was starting to panic. More than twenty-four hours was not the 'few' hours the Doctor had claimed. Was there something more seriously wrong than a bang on the head? He struggled with the evening's offering of steak and kidney pudding (which seemed to consist largely of kidneys and a watery gravy) and what little he could manage sat heavily on his stomach. Finally, he gave up and went straight to the infirmary, determined to interrogate Matron.

Edmund was awake.

In fact, he was sitting up and drinking a cup of tea. Peter halted at the doorway, shocked and so relieved, he had to turn away for a moment to compose himself. A shot of anger rushed through him that he had been worrying unnecessarily because nobody had bothered to call him, then remembered that he had no power here to change the status quo and it was a fight he was never going to win.

Besides, Ed was awake! Peter felt a stupid grin spread over his face.

"Hello, old thing. How are you feeling?"

Edmund grinned shyly back. Peter knew he hated looking helpless and was never quite himself when confined to a sick bed. He looked tired, despite the long sleep and was still too pale, but he really looked quite healthy, all things considered.

"Pete! I'm all right. Thanks for fishing me out".

Peter almost did a double take at the quietly mischievous eyes,

"How did you know it was me?"

Edmund smiled slowly, "of course it was you!"

Peter wasn't sure what to make of that, but was pleased that it seemed to amuse Edmund. Talking of which…

"Matthews won the Ledder".

Edmund's eyes bulged in shock, then he looked quite disgusted,

"Good grief, you're serious! How did he manage that? I've only ever seen him run fast when there's a tuck box involved"

"Nobody knows! In fact, I don't think Matthews knows how he did it either. There's a theory that he took a wrong turning in Gold Valley and shaved half a mile off the distance".

Edmund grinned appreciatively, then sobered,

"I'm sorry Pete. I know the race should have been yours this year…"

"No!" Peter strode forward, suddenly angry. He grasped Edmund's knee beneath the blanket and shook it gently. "Don't do that! I don't care about the race. You _know_ that!"

Edmund raised a hand in surrender,

"All right, old chap. Calm down. Sorry".

Peter grimaced in exasperation,

"Don't be sorry. Just…don't", he finished weakly.

Edmund stared back at him, something dark in his eyes and Peter felt his heart sink as he anticipated what was to come.

"Peter…"

"Yes?"

"What happened to…the airman?"

Peter looked down to where his hand was still clutching Edmund's knee. He was not particularly demonstrative as a rule and wondered at his own propensity for continually grabbing hold of his brother at the slightest provocation. Or maybe it wasn't such a big mystery after all.

"He's dead". There was no easy way to say it.

Edmund's face grew quite white even as his eyes darkened in confusion,

"But…" Edmund shifted on the bed, agitated. He grabbed Peter's forearm tightly,

"Please tell me it wasn't us, Pete! Did we kill him? I told him he wouldn't be shot. I promised!"

He looked and sounded desperate and Peter knew at that moment that while the physical cost had been slight, the cost Edmund was paying now was much more painful. There was nothing he could do to spare him.

"Ed…I'm sorry, he shot himself".

He watched in sorrow as Edmund drew in upon himself and curled up on the bed. Peter stayed with him until bedtime, but he didn't speak again and eventually drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The dorm had become a schoolboy version of the Spanish Inquisition. Peter knew he couldn't keep silent much longer without seriously damaging his position in the school, and it had suddenly become clear to him that the more interest he deflected from Edmund, the better. He didn't want Ed to face this sea of over-excited, curious boys when he was eventually released from the infirmary.

So, he told the story, but he kept it short and kept it factual. He wasn't about to embellish the tale for anybody else's edification. Despite his dry recitation, his classmates levelled gazes of awe at him, which were ungraciously received. He really hadn't done anything at all to be proud of except fish Edmund out of a stream, but the boys had obviously decided that it was a grand adventure and Peter could do nothing but roll his eyes in resignation.

Harder to take was their excited buzz over what they insisted on called Edmund's 'adventure'. That somebody they knew had been instrumental in the capture and death of a Jerry service man was the stuff of school legend. It was danger and adventure on their doorstep and remained a topic of conversation for many days. Peter was becoming increasingly concerned about his subdued brother's return when the school were inclined to treat him as a hero.

One boy was unwise enough to express his jealousy of Edmund's adventure to Peter himself. He was rather shocked to receive in return a number of hotly worded threats which included heads and lavatories, for which Peter was later heartily ashamed, but which stopped the boys talking about Edmund's capture in quite the same way. At least, not inside Peter's hearing.

Yet for all his anger and the genuine fear for Edmund, Peter was honest enough with himself to admit that at times, that frantic chase across the countryside had been…exciting. The first time he let the thought pass through his head, he'd winced at himself, felt ashamed, even fought the urge to beg for Edmund's forgiveness, but it didn't stop it being true.

It occurred to him that he hadn't felt quite that alive since Narnia. But then, he hadn't had his life so directly threatened outside of Narnia before. Should he be worried that he obviously found danger exciting? It also occurred to him that maybe, just _maybe_ England wasn't so different from Narnia after all? It was certainly larger, it was much, much more difficult and complicated, but for the first time in a long while, it had started to feel like home.

And it also occurred to him that in Narnia, it had all been so easy. They had responsibility, but it had been worn lightly. You had to work a lot harder in England - not just to succeed, but to earn the respect that had been theirs from the first week in Narnia. Wasn't that the point, though? The struggle?

He felt he was on the cusp of some grand idea, that if he just understood all a little more, his whole life would suddenly become clear. But he was not much given to profundity - he preferred to leave that sort of thing to Edmund, and sometimes Susan. He and Lucy were much better at feeling and acting than thinking about it afterwards. He was happy to let it go in the end because he was starting to feel comfortable in his own skin.

He wasn't a King here, and suddenly it didn't seem to matter so much.

Seeing Edmund well and happy mattered, but he wasn't anywhere near being either of those things at the moment. Peter was going to see what he could do about that.

And that was responsibility enough for now.

TBC

Coming Soon: Chapter nine, being the final chapter, in which Edmund comes to some conclusions.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimers in part one

Here it is - the final part. After a _very_ long spell of writer's block, this one practically wrote itself, so my thanks to C.S. Lewis for inspiring me!

Thanks also to everybody who reviewed - it is amazing how a little encouragement can really keep you motivated.

CHAPTER NINE

**Finishing the course**

Edmund woke with a gasp and immediately sat up, feeling the perspiration on his forehead prickle as it dried in the cool air of the dormitory. He fancied he could still hear the echo of a gunshot in the quiet room.

It was his second night back in the dormitory and his third night in a row being awoken by the sound of a gun. He recalled very little else from the dream except a feeling of terror and a rushing sensation as though he were falling from a great height. He decided the details were unimportant, as it didn't take a genius to guess where his dream came from or why it was reoccurring.

He knew Peter was worried about him - he was rather worrying himself, if truth be told. He could think of many occasions when he'd been in as much, if not more, physical danger than he had been in the hills of Herefordshire - incidents involving Ogres sprang to mind, not to mention Galman pirates, hags and Telmarines. He'd been into battle, fought hard, bloody and close with sword and dagger, dispensed justice in ways a British courtroom would hardly recognise. Why, after all his experience, did he feel this way now? Why did he feel as though his very foundations had been washed away so that he was left fragile and exposed, teetering on the edge of a cliff?

He lay down again, curling onto his side, listening to the quiet breathing of the other boys. On their first return from Narnia, nearly four years ago now, being surrounded by humans, other than his siblings, had felt decidedly…odd. Perhaps he was too used to being different. Now he found it comforting, like a wolf found comfort in his pack. He could quite readily admit that there was a certain charm in being one of the crowd, rather than the ringmaster. Perhaps, he realised with a jolt, he had grown too complacent - too dependent on the judgment of others. Hadn't he promised himself that terrible day, when he was ten, that he would never put himself first again? At Beruna, that determination had made him see more clearly than he had ever done, made him go after the Witch's wand as though nothing else mattered and no obstacle was going to stop him. He had taken responsibility.

Well, he was certainly feeling like that all over again, except this time, there was no dramatic catalyst for his redemption; no convenient monster standing in the wings for him to vanquish. He had failed, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. Pieter Muller's death may have been welcomed by the unthinking crowd, but to him, it was a personal failure. He had not known enough and not done enough, and in the end, he had made a bad decision and a man had died. He'd really thought, there on the bridge, that if he took himself out of the equation, the situation would be resolved peacefully. He had been in the way! Pieter had been holding him because he was stuck in a cycle he couldn't break out of, and the soldiers and policemen and _everyone_ hunting him, couldn't act in case Edmund was injured. _He_ had been the impasse.

Well, he _had_ resolved it. Permanently.

Edmund sometimes felt he was cursed with self-awareness. He knew he was too ready to take guilt on his shoulders - Peter accused him of it often enough! He could even play Peter's counter-arguments in his head as to why he had somehow acted utterly virtuously in this whole mess. He didn't buy it, which is why he wouldn't let Peter say the words out loud to him. The problem was, he wasn't just guilty this time, he was _culpable, _just as he'd been in the betrayal of his siblings all those years ago. There was a subtle difference that only a student and practitioner of justice could truly appreciate.

So, it was a wonder he was getting any sleep at all really, between the strange dreams and his circling thoughts. His only distraction and remedy had been immersing himself in schoolwork, but even long hours in the library couldn't keep him permanently away from his schoolmates.

That was the worst of it - dealing with the awestruck looks, cheerful, teasing comments and barely-concealed jealousy. He truly didn't wish what had happened on anyone else, but sometimes he came very close.

So, another early morning of fitful dozing was followed by running the gauntlet of comments over breakfast and the avoidance of his brother's watchful eye. Lunch was not much better for Peter cornered him near the staff dais which meant he couldn't escape easily without being noticed.

"Can we talk later?" Peter had asked hurriedly. He was obviously trying to keep his tone casual and not succeeding at all.

"Umm…I have history Prep and…"

"Ed…please!"

Oh Lord, he'd never been able to withstand that look,

"Yes, all right". Ed agreed with a sinking heart and watched Peter retreat with a strange combination of dread and hope.

When he reached the table and glumly helped himself to the ubiquitous boiled potatoes, his day deteriorated yet further when Carmichael decided to sit next to him. John Carmichael was not widely admired within the school - not, for once, because he was uninterested at sport and in fact was a half decent batsman, but because he was rather too fond of talking down to the other boys. His father had by some means or other managed to make himself indispensable to the government of the day, which was no doubt fine for the government, but made his son quite insufferable.

Since Carmichael fancied himself as being somewhat well placed when it came to privileged information, Edmund had no doubt at all that his little 'adventure', as everyone insisted on calling it, had rather put his nose out of joint and Edmund was about to pay.

"Well, Pevensie, caught any more Germans today?" he smirked, enjoying his witticism too much to care that few others shared his amusement.

"Carmichael", Edmund said neutrally, hating to acknowledge the other boy, but knowing that ignoring him would only make it worse.

"My father says that the chaps in London are rather keen to hush the whole thing up, so I'm afraid your heroics were rather wasted, old chap. But I'm not supposed to talk about it…" he trailed off in a mysterious manner. Disappointed by the lack of response, he continued to needle.

"But, why are you so glum? Anyone would think you weren't pleased that there was one fewer Jerry for us to worry about!"

Edmund clenched his teeth. Even a few of the boys sitting near them looked rather shocked. It was one thing to _think_ that, but to say it out loud was rather unsporting.

"In fact, I'd say it was downright unpatriotic!" He looked around, head high, rather pleased with himself. Edmund couldn't help but gape at his stupidity.

"I say, Carmichael, that's a bit off", ventured Matthews, rather weakly, but well meant all the same. Being unpatriotic was the worst sin the boys could commit while the war raged, and being accused of it was just as bad.

Carmichael, rather excited from suddenly having more attention given to him than he was used to, failed to gauge the mood of his primary victim.

"Pevensie", he said, his voice suddenly chummy, "did you see him do it?"

Edmund stared at him in shock, repelled by the rather unpleasant voyeuristic shine in the other boy's eyes,

"Carmichael, I'm asking you nicely to stop talking about this now".

"Oh come on now, it's only a simple question! Besides, I remember now, he chucked you in the river before he did the deed, didn't he? Jolly decent of him!" he laughed as though the idea of a decent German was the only ridiculous thing about the conversation,

"I bet you're sorry you missed it, though…"

Something snapped in Edmund - some restraint he didn't even realised he held down, until now. Before his conscious mind could catch up, he'd stood and punched Carmichael firmly and accurately in the nose. Contrary to what he had always been told, it _did_ make him feel better. The inevitable scuffle ensued, with some rather less accurate blows being exchanged before they were broken up and Edmund was marched rather firmly out of the Hall. He glanced at his schoolmates as he was led past them and was rather pleased (and relieved) to find approval on their faces. Matthews even went so far as to give him a discrete thumbs up, which rather boded ill for Carmichael's future popularity.

Then he caught sight of Peter's face and all inclination to be amused left him. A few days ago, before this had all started, he'd thought he rather enjoyed shocking his elder brother…now he wasn't so sure.

Being summoned before the Headmaster was inevitable after all that. That made twice in a week, but the first occasion had been rather different; involving a rather too hearty handshake, a speech about public duty and 'doing one's part', somewhat temperate thanks for his 'role' in 'events' and a hope that all would return to normal very soon. Edmund doubted very much that Paxman relished another personal audience with a Pevensie, in fact, he imagined their stock with the Headmaster had taken rather a fall of late - getting attention for anything other than academic or athletic prowess was not the done thing at all.

Edmund suspected that it was precisely for this reason that he got off as lightly as he did. A fistfight usually merited much more than five whacks on the hand from the Headmaster's trusty cane. Edmund took it all without flinching, but wondered if it had ever occurred to Paxman that beating a boy who had just been through a traumatic experience, however mildly it was done, was not the most helpful action to take. The concluding interview had followed the more usual pattern: a request from Paxman to tell him exactly what Carmichael had said, an invitation politely declined by Edmund, countered by a stern reminder of the virtues of self-control and appropriate response, and followed by the expected verbal expression of contrition.

Paxman, typically, released him just in time for Prep. Also typically, Peter was waiting for him near his common room and there was really no way he could avoid him any more, he was not even sure he wanted to.

Peter, his face set, said nothing at all when Edmund slowed and came to stand in front of him. Edmund swallowed nervously, for Peter quite unknowingly, could make armies falter when he gave that stony look and there would be no gainsaying him now. So, when he held out a hand, still silent, Edmund put his own into it without hesitation. Peter looked at his brother's reddened palm and his jaw tightened.

He dropped the hand abruptly, then gave Edmund a gentle shove between the shoulder blades, herding him away from the common room,

"Come with me".

Edmund trotted down the corridor obediently, Peter's hand at his back, and he was not surprised when he was steered into the Senior dorm. He was not really supposed to be here, but Peter had a way of ignoring rules when he wanted to. It was deserted and it was possible Peter was responsible for that as well. Really, he was better off not asking.

"Are you hurt? Other than the obvious".

Peter's voice was terse and Edmund inwardly winced. His brother only sounded that abrupt when he was really upset about something and didn't want to show it.

"No. It wasn't much of a fight".

Peter turned his back quickly, and walked a few paces away from his brother,

"Not much of a fight…" he echoed slowly and quietly. He turned back and now Edmund could see cracks in the stony façade,

"What the Hell did he say to you? I've _never_ known you to throw the first punch!"

Edmund put his head down guiltily for Peter had lost his emotional control and what most would read as anger, Edmund recognised as worry and hurt. There was no surer way to hurt Peter than not to trust him with something. Edmund had known this, but had kept quiet anyway because he didn't want Peter to know the extent of his culpability. He sighed and gave Peter the short version,

"He basically wondered why I wasn't jumping for joy that Pieter…the airman…was dead and…he questioned my patriotism".

Peter looked briefly murderous and Edmund took an involuntary step backwards, not having seen that look for many years. Peter's face softened instantly, but his fists clenched and remained so for quite a long time.

"His name really bothered you, didn't it?" Peter said suddenly and completely off the point. His voice had a contemplative tone as though he was realising something.

"Of course it did!"

"It was a complete coincidence".

"I…know that".

Edmund wasn't sure what Peter was getting at, but he was too near the heart of the matter for comfort.

"I'm not sure you do…I think his name made it personal for you. I _know_ you Ed! I think you tried to save him". Peter's tone had switched from questioning to certain by the time he had expressed his thoughts.

Edmund couldn't quite bear to look Peter in the eye,

"Well, I didn't do a very good job of it, did I?" he opined, his voice unsteady.

"Didn't…Ed!" Peter cried, sounding quite incredulous, "he could have killed you! He very nearly succeeded. Do you think I didn't see him shoot at you?"

"You don't understand, Peter!" Edmund shouted, wondering why his clever brother was failing to get the point, "he was afraid! He didn't know what to do", he finished weakly.

Peter stared at him wonderingly,

"You were afraid too, Ed",

"I…yes…but even so, it was my fault that…"

"Oh my God, Eddy. When you get it wrong, you_ really_ get it wrong".

Peter hadn't called him Eddy in a long time. He also hadn't sounded quite that upset in a long time, either. Or as angry.

Peter grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him closer. He was wearing what Edmund had often told him was his 'Older Brother' face. Peter often teased that Ed should beware the face - it could make him cry like a little girl. There was no humour in it today,

"Edmund Pevensie! You did the best you could, and your best is something to see. You did more than anyone had the right to expect you to do. How many lives did you save? You saved _my_ life - was that the wrong thing to do? I'm so proud of you I could burst!"

Peter leaned down slightly so he could look Edmund directly in the eye and pinned him with an intensity that made his skin prickle,

"When and why in all of this stupid mess did you decide that saving the world was your responsibility? When did you decide that saving _him_ was your responsibility? It never was, Ed. _It never was!_ In the end, he was responsible for himself. You are _not_ the reason Pieter Muller is dead!"

He finished on a loud burst of desperation and sincerity, gripping Edmund's shoulders as though he wanted to shake the truth into him. For once, Edmund was rendered speechless.

Then he started to cry.

Peter stayed with him and was very patient, and he never teased Edmund about it later.

Afterwards, embarrassment at the intensity of his own emotions got the better of him and he pushed Peter away, muttering about getting some air. His brother let him go with a rueful smile. Peter with his honest heart, and steadfast faith, and genius for seeing the truth of the matter. Peter who he knew didn't always _need _words, but when he wanted to use them, could be quite devastating. Peter who had shaken him about and turned him on his head like the sand in an egg timer.

_When you get it wrong, you _really_ get it wrong_.

Edmund moved faster, almost at a run, as though his speed could outpace the emotions churning under his skin. Complete, utter relief was foremost, he thought. Relief and…sorrow. Mostly for Pieter Muller, but some of it, because he was allowed now, was for himself. Sorrow for the situation he'd been put into, through no fault of his own.

Quite different from the awful self-pity he'd been indulging in. How Peter had stood him like that, he'd never know. He could only be thankful that he had.

He found his favourite bench near the football pitch and sat down, rather glad of the chilly late-afternoon air on his warm cheeks. He stared at the posts of the empty goal and thought for a moment about guilt. He still felt it, and probably always would when it came to tragic situations. It was human nature, and _his_ nature to do so. Something else was niggling at him, though - it had been buried under all the drama and the soul-searching, but was now coming to the surface, demanding to be dealt with.

He did still feel guilty, not for something he'd done, but something he'd _failed_ to do. He'd spent a year mourning the loss of Narnia and of Aslan without noticing that he'd lost nothing at all. He'd lacked that faith. Aslan had said he and Lucy would learn to know him here and he was intelligent and intuitive enough to know what that meant almost at once. The trouble was, there was a difference between knowing it and feeling it and he'd dealt with that difference by ignoring the issue all together.

Until it had been abruptly brought to his attention.

It was strange, but he realised now that his fall from the bridge would always be a defining moment for him. It had represented utter failure, but now seemed like a moment of triumph. He realised that the moment he had trusted that Aslan (and Peter) would catch him was the moment he finally put his trust in God.

He realised that he'd stayed outside longer than he should have when Peter came to find him to drag him back for supper. He was stiff and chilled, but really rather hungry after all, so he wasn't unwilling, he just needed to get a few more things off his chest first. He looked up at Peter to explain, but obviously didn't need to as his brother was already making himself comfortable on the bench beside him.

"I know that look - you've got something on your mind, and I'm not going to get to eat until you tell me".

Edmund, delighted to have the easy, warm-hearted Peter back, blurted out,

"Pete, you've been an absolute brick. I don't know how you put up with me sometimes, but…well…thank you for doing it".

It was positively gushing for Edmund, and he knew it. He could feel his cheeks turn pink and ignored Peter's amused look.

"I don't know how I do it, either", he murmured in response, then turned serious again, "But that's not what you wanted to tell me", Peter stated confidently.

"No. No it's not." There was a long silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. When it came to his brother, Peter sometimes had infinite patience. Eventually Edmund said,

"I've been thinking about Aslan", he began slowly, not looking at his brother, "and…and…Jesus, um…" he paused again, not sure why he was so hesitant, almost shy. He glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye. His brother was watching him with a thoughtful look, but he didn't say anything, just nodded at him to continue.

"Faith and trust", Edmund said. A complete non sequitur - except, in his mind, it was anything but.

"Sorry?"

"That's what I was thinking when I…fell. Faith and trust. Aslan and Jesus. You." He stopped again, quite unable to continue, caught in his brother's heartbreaking gaze. He sighed then, weary, not sure if he could fully explain, make Peter understand why it was so important.

"We're all here", he said, eventually. "You, me, Aslan, we're all here."

"Ed…I don't…" Peter's voice was so uncertain, so filled with concern that Edmund's throat tightened in sympathy. He looked back intently.

"I mean…here in England. You and me, Aslan. Everything we were in Narnia is everything we are here. Nothing has changed. It's just…it's just harder to find. Pete, this _is_ Narnia, in a way - we just have to see it".

There was a flash of comprehension in Peter's eyes, a moment of understanding. Peter reached up a hand and lay in gently on Edmund's cheek, his thumb pressing lightly at the corner of one anxious, tired eye. Edmund blinked slowly, moved beyond words at his brother's tenderness. So rare, so _very_ Peter.

"I know, Ed. I know". Peter's voice was kind, but it was still coloured with concern, despite the gentle smile on his face.

"I'm fine", Edmund said quickly, but Peter just shook his head.

"No you're not. But you will be."

Edmund acknowledged the truth of this by saying nothing at all.

Peter smiled again, rather ruefully this time, then his hand moved to the back of Edmund's neck and he gently shook his brother, back and forth,

"Come on, you little oik, stop brooding away on this bench. Come and get supper before the starving hoards eat all the cake".

Edmund smiled up at Peter, feeling lighter than he had for quite a while,

"I'll come in a moment."

"Are you sure?" Peter's voice was suspicious and Edmund's smile grew broader.

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not going to…run away.

Peter scowled in an exaggerated manner and flicked Edmund on the ear as he moved his hand back to his side. Edmund yelped and ducked.

"Be sure you don't", his brother threatened as he walked towards the school.

Edmund merely grinned at his brother's retreating back.

THE END


End file.
